Blood of the Bayou
by Scullspeare
Summary: Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean – this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them. Contains adult situations although nothing explicit , violence and some strong language. Hurt/comfort-Adventure
1. Chapter 1

**SUMMARY:** _Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean – this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them._

**SPOILERS:** _Set late in Season 7. References to canon incidents through Season 6, and some oblique references to a couple of Season 7 incidents but no plot spoilers for anything in Season 7. This is a casefic which takes place in-between canon hunts._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen once called them, adult situations, and violence._

**WORD COUNT:**_ 30K+_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort/Adventure_

**A/N:**_ Written for JaniceC678, based on a plot bunny she kindly gave me to play with. The full prompt will appear at the end of the story so as not to spoil things. Beta-ed by the always awesome Harrigan. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining goofs are mine and mine alone. __ Enjoy._

**BLOOD OF THE BAYOU**

**BY SCULLSPEARE**

"Damn…" Dean rolled onto his back, chest heaving, his skin flushed even under the cool moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains. "You sure know how to push a guy's buttons."

Parise, the woman he'd met just hours earlier, rolled onto her side and raised herself up on her elbow, black curls falling over her equally flushed face as she wrapped a long leg around his. "But that's a good thing, n'est-ce pas?"

"Oh, hell yeah." As Dean's breathing evened out, he reached up and ran his fingers down her face, once more taking in the flawless coffee-colored skin and unexpected blue eyes, the high cheekbones and full lips that had drawn him to her from the far side of the bar. "I'm… impressed. You even found a few buttons I didn't know I had."

"No easy feat," Parise smiled, "to impress you, I mean. I sense there have been many lovers." She slid her hand over his chest. "Many women invited into your bed, although few are invited here." Her hand came to rest over his heart.

Dean's smile faded and Parise chuckled softly. "Don't frown, mon cher." She leaned in to kiss him. "I'm not picking out curtains. It's just… an observation."

"An observation?" Dean ran his tongue over his lips, tasting her kiss. "You running your mojo on me?"

"Mais non. My mojo, as you call it, is just for the tourists." Parise's soft accent deliberately became exaggerated. "Dey love to 'ave dere fortune tol' by de direct descendant of Marie Laveaux, de Voodoo Queen."

"Son of a bitch." Dean raised an eyebrow. "You really related to her?"

Parise shrugged. "I have Cajun blood, Haitian blood, West African blood… Follow any branch of my family tree back far enough and one will cross with hers – eventually." She grinned. "Of course, the same could be said for almost any Creole in Louisiana."

Dean brushed her hair back from her face. "Questionable family ties aside, I think the tourists come because you're hot." He bit back a grin. "Can't see'em buying that shtick if you were fugly?"

Parise smacked him playfully on the chest. "I think you just managed to compliment and insult me at the same time." She shrugged. "Look, when life is bad, people want to know things will be OK again. They want … reassurance. I use my gift to give it to them. But it's New Orleans so they want a bit of a show, too. Throw in some French and a juju doll and suddenly," she snapped her fingers, "reassurance becomes magic."

"Magic, huh?" Dean pulled her closer. "So, other than I've got a few notches in my belt, what does your mojo tell you about me?" It was a dangerous question, but good sex and a belly full of whiskey fed his reckless streak. Hell, he was in bed with a storefront psychic he'd just met; he'd kind of bypassed upstairs brain thinking a few hours back.

Parise ran her hand along his jaw. "With a face like this, there will always be a woman in your bed when you want one… but you have yet to find _the_ woman." Her eyes glittered mischievously. "Perhaps because there is more fun in the hunt itself."

Dean grinned. "Guilty as charged."

Her smile faded as she studied him. "But I sense… sadness. You've lost family, and those scars still run deep. You lose yourself in work, in… adventure, but the fear of loss is always with you."

"Adventure?" Dean grin stayed in place, masking his discomfort at the truth in her words. "I told you I'm in pest control, right? It's only an adventure when a bored cougar decides she wants something more than termites taken care of."

Parise's eyes narrowed. "You also bear great responsibility. It weighs heavily on you."

_Damn it, Dean_. He stared up at the plantation fan turning slowly above the bed, mentally kicking himself for opening this door. _Rule Number One – have your fun, say thanks to keep future options open, then get the hell out. _His forced smile was back as he returned his attention to Parise. "You got me – the quest to make this a pest-free world is a great responsibility."

"That's not-"

Dean cut her off with a kiss. "I should go." He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, then turned back to Parise. "This was – you are – really something."

"Et toi, mon cher." Parise bit her lip as she took in his cut physique, now in silhouette against the white sheers that billowed softly in front of the open window. "But there's no rush. Unlike you, I have no roommate." She rolled onto her stomach, the moonlight highlighting the curves of her ass. "If talking makes you uncomfortable, I'm sure we can figure out something else to do for the rest of the night."

"I'm sure we could." Dean was tempted – damn tempted – but her _abilities_ were starting to make him feel vulnerable. The practiced smile returned. "And next time I'm in town, if we're both still free agents, maybe we will." He squinted into the shadows as he scanned the floor. "Now, where the hell are my clothes?" His eyes slammed shut when the room was suddenly flooded with light; when he peeled them open, Parise was grinning up at him, her hand still on the bedside lamp.

"To help you find your clothes." She sat up, never breaking eye contact with him. "And to let me fully enjoy the view while you do."

Dean's smile was genuine as she pushed herself off the bed and stretched. "Just so you know, the light makes this view thing a two-way street. And my side of the street has mighty fine views."

"Here." Parise reached down and pulled Dean's jeans, the belt still threaded through the loops, from under the duvet puddled on the floor and held them out to him. "Now what were you wearing underneath… boxer briefs?"

Dean took the jeans from her and stepped into them. "Why don't I just go commando."

"Why not? As you say, you're a man who loves adventure." Parise sighed as Dean zipped up his jeans, then moved toward a dresser behind him. "Before you go, I have-" Her smile faded as her gaze fell on his tattoo, seeing it for the first time undistracted and in full light. She reached out to touch it, a long, slender finger tracing the outline. "Tell me about this."

Dean glanced down as he fastened his belt, her touch fueling an involuntary shudder. "What about it?"

Parise's focus stayed on the tattoo. "You tease me about my mojo, say you don't believe, yet you wear a powerful mystical symbol."

"Mystical?" Dean gave a casual shrug. "I just thought it was cool."

Parise looked up, eyebrow arching in surprise. Or was it disbelief?

Dean laughed. "The tattoo guy told me it was for good luck. I figured it couldn't hurt." He glanced again at the tattoo, then looked up at Parise, feigning worry. "He wasn't bullshitting me, was he? This isn't Cajun for I'm an easy lay, or something like that?"

"No, no…" Parise smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It _is_ protection against evil. Powerful protection." She shrugged at his look of surprise. "In my work, I'm often asked about things like this… symbols for luck, talismans to ward off evil spirits…. I've seen many similar designs, just never one quite so detailed, so… true." Parise relaxed suddenly, smiling again as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Forgive me, mon cher. I promised I would not bring my job home with us. Whatever the story behind your tattoo, it's sexy. Very sexy. So let's see what I can do to change your mind about staying." She pressed her body against his and kissed him hard.

"Damn." Dean ran his hands down the small of her back after he returned the kiss in kind, upstairs and downstairs brains once again at war. He shook his head as he reluctantly pulled himself from her hold. "It's taking every bit of self-control I have to not to jump back into that bed with you but… I really have to go." He glanced around the room. "Any idea where my shirts are?"

Parise offered a pretty pout. "Kitchen, I think."

"Kitchen?" Dean grinned. "Oh, right."

"I'll get them." Parise turned to reach for a white silk robe hanging on the back of the door.

"No, I can find them." Dean pulled Parise's hand away from the robe, letting his gaze wander from her face to her full breasts to her toned belly and legs that didn't quit. "You stay here. Remembering you like this will keep me warm at night for weeks to come."

"And remind you what you missed out on." Parise opened the door for him. "You want me to call you a cab?"

"Nah." Dean jammed his feet into his boots, sans socks. "The walk'll clear my head."

"It's a long walk."

"There's a lot to clear."

Parise flashed a seductive smile. "Take care, mon cher."

"Always do." Dean winked at her, stepped into the hallway and with a forced exhale jogged down the stairs.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Parise listened for the front door opening and closing, then pulled the robe off the hook and slipped it on, belting it loosely. She pulled back the sheers and watched as Dean walked along the front path, still pulling on his shirts. She offered a smile and a small wave as he glanced up before heading down the street and disappearing into the night.

There was no trace of the smile when she dropped the drape and snatched up the phone from the nightstand. By the time a voice on the other end answered, her expression was stony. "We have a problem."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Dean checked his watch as he crossed the motel parking lot: 2:20 a.m. If Sam had hooked up with the blonde who'd been hitting on him at the bar, Dean would be crashing in the back seat of the car. Whatever. He could live with a little discomfort if it meant Sam was having some rare fun.

"Hopefully yours was a little less psychic than mine," he muttered, still unable to shake the unsettled feeling that had started when Parise _read_ him. The woman was ridiculously hot, the sex had been great and until the too-close-to-home mojo reading – which, yeah, yeah, he'd kind of brought on himself – it had been a good night. So why was his gut churning?

"Hopefully it's just the gumbo." Dean rubbed his stomach as he checked the doorknob to their room; there was no _Do Not Disturb_ sign. "Damn it, Sam. Without a soul, you'd sleep with anything in a skirt. Now, you're a freaking monk." He shook his head, as he fished the room key from his pocket. "If you're not at the blonde chick's place, you deserve to be woken up for being so freaking clueless."

He banged on the door. "Yo, Sammy. You and I need to talk." Dean shoved the key in the lock and pushed open the door, flipping on the ceiling light. "Why the hell are you sleeping when-"

He froze.

The table and two chairs in the corner were both up-ended, the beds askew and a streak on the faded wallpaper on the back wall looked suspiciously like blood. A shotgun from the weapons bag lay on the floor, partially under the bed. "Sammy?"

Dean's head snapped to the left; the bathroom door was open, the room beyond it dark and empty. He yanked his phone from his pocket, speed-dialed Sam's number and his stomach lurched when the answering ring came from the nightstand – exactly where his brother left his phone when he hit the hay. Sam's duffel was on the floor in front of the dresser and his laptop was open on the bed, like he'd been checking for a new case before… before whatever the hell had gone down.

Dean crossed quickly to his brother's bed and reached under the pillow; when his fingers closed around Sam's gun, the crushing pressure in his chest made it hard to breathe. With no phone and no gun, no damn way had Sam taken off voluntarily.

He grabbed the shotgun from the floor and sniffed the barrel; it hadn't been fired – but was that good or bad?

The job in New Orleans – a simple banishing of a poltergeist from a historic home – was done. They were hitting the road in the morning. Sam's disappearance had to be tied to something else. Dick Roman? Crowley? Or was Lucifer somehow screwing with his brother's head again? Dean glanced over at the door; there were no signs of forced entry. Either Sam knew his attackers or… or they didn't need a door to get into the room.

"Son a bitch." Dean sank down onto the end of the bed. "Sammy… where the hell are you?"

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam opened his eyes, or at least tried to; it was like someone had glued them shut. He felt groggy and sick.

He swallowed, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. His eyes snapped open when it hit him he was gagged, his mouth taped shut. The shock helped clear his head; instinctively, he tried to yank off the tape but his hands were bound behind his back, more tape securing his wrists.

Reining in rapidly building panic, Sam glanced around. He was lying on his side on a hard floor and it was pitch black. He squinted into the darkness, searching for any sign of light, for any clue to tell him where he was but there was nothing. He listened, but there was only silence.

Sam struggled to sit up and grunted when his head slammed into the ceiling. The ceiling? No, it couldn't be – it was only inches above him. Fear fed the pressure building inside his chest; the _floor_ and _ceiling_ were less than two feet apart. He leaned to his right, his head quickly colliding with a vertical surface there; he slid to his left, with the same result.

A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with temperature. He was in a box. A fucking box.

His heart rate sped up. A casket? Sam almost threw up just thinking the word. A casket would mean he was … buried alive. No. No….

Sam yelled for help but his shouts were easily muffled by the gag. He kicked out frantically and pain shot up through his legs as his feet slammed into the wood; his feet were bare, his ankles also bound.

He stilled, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose, forcing himself to calm down._ Pull it together, Sam._ _Figure out what happened._ The heat inside the confined space was stifling, sweat running freely down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His head was muzzy, too, like he'd been drugged. Had he? _Focus. You need to focus – remember how the hell you ended up here_. He dropped his head, resting his forehead on the floor as he sifted through his hazy memory...

"_This is it – Dave's bar." Dean smacked Sam's arm then moved toward the entrance. "Come on."_

"_Le Chien Noir?" Sam stared at the sign above the door. "Dude, that means The Black Dog."_

"_What it means is free food and drink." Dean reached for the door handle. "Look, Dave wants to say thanks for turfing his poltergeist and we're tapped out. Screw the name, a free meal's a free meal." He raised his voice as they stepped inside the packed bar. "He tells me they have the best gumbo in the state."_

_After threading their way through the crowd, Dean leaned over the bar to talk to the bartender. Between the music and the chatter, Sam couldn't hear what he said, but they were quickly seated at a small reserved table at the side with generous glasses of good whiskey in front of them. The massive bowls of gumbo that soon followed lived up to their billing. When their dishes were cleared away and their glasses refilled, Dean leaned back in his stool, expertly surveying the crowd. "Yo, Sammy. Blonde, eight o'clock, totally checking you out."_

"_Dean-"_

"_Don't 'Dean' me." His brother rolled his eyes. "A man has needs, and you need to get laid. It's been… I don't even know how long it's been. I just know that frustration makes you cranky, and I don't wanna live with cranky any more."_

_Sam shook his head, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "If you think the blonde is sending out signals, go for it."_

"_No, I said she's sending out signals to you." Dean tossed back the rest of his drink. "I have my eye on the dark-haired goddess at two o'clock. I've already fired off opening salvos and, as expected, they were a direct hit. So, excuse me while I go sink my battleship." He offered an exaggerated grin, set down his glass and pushed himself away from the table. "The room's yours. Now, go talk to the blonde." He began working his way through the crowd toward a beautiful Creole woman at the end of the bar, pausing just past the table where the blonde sat to shoot a look back at Sam and mouth the words, "Hot. Talk to her." _

Inside the crate, Sam retched and screwed his eyes closed as he willed the latest wave of nausea to subside. To feel like this, he had to have been drugged; and whatever he'd been given was doing a real number on his stomach as well as his head. But with his mouth taped shut, throwing up was a direct route to choking to death. Although his death was the likely end game for whoever had put him in this crate, he'd fight with everything he had to spoil that plan….

_There was nothing subtle about the looks the blonde was sending his way. She was tall, beauty queen pretty, had long wavy hair and a spark in her eyes that suggested she loved having fun... just like Jess. Sam swallowed. Way too much like Jess. Even after all this time, after everything that had happened since he lost her, she was still an open wound._

_He'd once envied his brother's ability to separate the emotional aspects of a hook-up from the physical. It was only as he got older, as they got closer again post-Stanford that he'd realized that Dean was nowhere near as good at detachment as he liked others to think. God knows there had been far fewer one-night stands since his relationship with Lisa ended, and tonight was his first hook-up since the Amazon Lydia. _

_Sam, at least with his soul in place, had never been good at the whole one-night thing. 'You're too much of a girl, Sammy,' was Dean's subtle take. Sam's track record didn't help, either; when he did jump in with both feet, he was much more likely to end up with a Madison or a Ruby than a Dr. Cara._

_But the blonde – Carrie – took the decision out of his hands. She'd made her move right after Dean left the table, coming over with two glasses of whiskey and placing one in front of Sam as she slid into his brother's vacated seat. She'd introduced herself, and they'd talked._

Sam's stomach cramped. Had Carrie done this to him? Roofied his drink? No…. He remembered talking to her – a far-from-subtle _move-it-along_ gesture from Dean on the other side of the bar encouraging him to take it to the next level – but it hadn't gone beyond that. And he had no memory of touching the drink she'd brought for him.

_Every time Carrie laughed or brushed her hair out of her face, Sam saw Jess. Shortly after Dean left the bar with the brunette, Sam apologized for cutting things short and left alone. Carrie had seemed disappointed but made no attempt to follow him. He went out the side entrance, caught a glimpse through the window of Carrie talking on her cellphone, then returned to the motel. _

_Once back in the room, he'd changed into sweats and a T-shirt and brushed his teeth before settling onto his bed with the laptop. He did some digging into the most recent acquisitions of Roman Enterprises but, finding little more than corporate rhetoric, quickly moved on to finding another hunt. He fell asleep with the computer open on his lap. _

_He was startled awake by pounding on the door. His hand was halfway to the gun under his pillow when his brother's voice followed the knocking. _

"_Sam, open the door. I've got beer and Cajun wings – my hands are full."_

"_Damn it, Dean…." Sam slid the computer off his lap, yawning as he pushed himself off the bed and stumbled across the room toward the door. "That bowl of gumbo could have fed a family of four for a week. How the hell do you still have room for wings? Let me guess," he yanked open the door, "you worked up an appetite with-" He coughed at the cloud of dust blown in his face._

Sam's heart raced again with that memory. It wasn't his brother standing outside the door – it was Carrie, the blonde from the bar, flanked by two strangers.

"_Hey, Sammy. Surprise!" Carrie's taunt was delivered in a perfect imitation of Dean's voice. "Miss me?"_

_Sam instinctively slammed shut the door but the dust, whatever it was, dulled his reflexes and the moment's hesitation was all the two men needed. They pushed past Carrie, threw themselves at the door and forced it open, shoving Sam back into the room. He staggered backwards, fighting to keep his balance as the lights suddenly developed halos around them and the men's voices took on a weird echo._

"_You're coming with us, Sam." This was from the smaller man, a forty-something built like a boxer. "Easy way or hard way – that's up to you."_

_Sam's foot collided with the weapons bag as he backed up. He'd never have time to load a shotgun, but…. Barely breaking eye contact with the intruders, he snatched up a shotgun by the barrel and swung it like a baseball bat. The bigger man, a muscular African-American, was closest and the stock caught him on the side of the head, sending him bouncing over the bed before crashing into the cheap table and chairs by the window. _

_Sam took a backswing at the second man but was already off-balance and had lost the element of surprise. The smaller attacker dodged the blow and spun around for a roundhouse kick, his booted foot landing heavily on Sam's ribs, slamming him into the motel room wall and sending the shotgun flying from his hands. The side of his head smashed into the fire alarm, leaving a streak of blood on the wallpaper as he slid to the floor._

"_Good. I was hoping you'd pick hard way." _

_Sam barely had time to lift his head before the man dropped in front of him and jammed a syringe into his chest. His hand instinctively jumped to the needle, yanking it out but whatever was in it worked fast. Already dizzy from the dust and the blow to head, his arms fell to his sides, suddenly too heavy to hold up, and the room started to spin. _

"_No!" Carrie slammed shut the motel room door, stormed over to Sam and pulled the syringe from his hand. "No drugs. We were clear – no drugs!"_

_Sam's attacker was breathing heavily as he pushed himself to his feet and turned to Carrie. "Look lady, your impressionist mumbo jumbo and magic powder may have gotten us in the door, but you wanna take down a hunter, you don't fuck around." _

_Carrie_ _glared him. "You just needed to subdue him. As soon as I recited the spell, he'd be under my control."_

_The man snorted. "You did see him swinging the shotgun, right? Getting our heads used for batting practice wasn't part of this deal." He watched his partner untangle himself from the upended furniture before shooting a look of contempt at Sam. "Whatever. He's all yours. Go to town with your hocus pocus."_

_Carrie held up the syringe, anger flashing in her eyes. "I have to wait now until this clears. It clouds the way."_

_Sam's vision was sliding in and out of focus, the light in the room seeming to fade as the drug took hold, but it was easy to tell that Carrie was pissed – even a little scared._

_She shook her head. "Ti-Jean won't be happy."_

"_Yeah, well your boss's happiness is not a big concern for me. He wanted Winchester, we got him Winchester." The hunter glared down at Sam. "He's lucky the kid's still breathing. If Ti-Jean didn't have something I need, believe me, Winchester would be dead. I've been looking for him… for payback… for a long time."_

Those memories hit Sam like a punch to the gut. Payback? For what? The men knew he was a hunter, knew him by name – and their fighting style, their use of a knockout drug, both screamed hunter. But who were they? He didn't recognize them and the only name they'd used was Carrie's boss, Ti-Jean. That name meant squat to him. As for the blonde, she knew spellwork. What the hell kind of witch was she?

_Carrie was staring down at Sam, as if deciding her next move. "You have the means to secure him?"_

"_Of course." The big hunter spoke for the first time, gingerly touching his blossoming black eye as he moved up beside his partner. "Once we're clear of witnesses, it'll be our pleasure."_

_Carrie nodded. "Good. He'll keep fighting us until I can bring him under control. See that he causes no trouble. I'll meet you at the warehouse." She turned and left, slamming the door behind her._

Sam screwed his eyes closed, riffling through his memory for further details, but everything quickly faded to black after Carrie left the room. He had nothing more until he'd come to moments earlier.

Sam rubbed his face against his shoulder, trying to loosen the tape over his mouth but the gag wouldn't budge. He kicked the side of the crate in frustration, then stilled, breathing heavily. OK, the hunters had obviously put him in this crate. They and Carrie were both working for this Ti-Jean, but who the hell was he? And who was the hunter who wanted payback?

A car door slamming, followed by muffled voices interrupted his musing, and his heart rate escalated to the point his chest hurt. _Voices._ If he could hear people talking, he wasn't buried – and if he wasn't buried, he could get out. For the first time since he'd regained consciousness, there was a flicker of hope.

Light was suddenly visible through cracks in the crate, like a cover had been pulled off. His prison then jerked forward, the sound of wood scraping on metal suggesting the crate was being pulled from a vehicle of some kind. That guess seemed sound when he was lowered roughly to the ground. The lid was quickly pried off, and Sam flinched as complete darkness suddenly gave way to brilliant light, courtesy of the industrial lamp directly overhead.

Through watering eyes, he peered up at the faces surrounding him; there were the two hunters from the motel, one on either side of him; Carrie was on his left and a third man he'd never seen before stood at his feet. They appeared to be in the warehouse Carrie had mentioned at the motel, crates similar to the one he was laying in piled high at the outer reaches of the light. A glimpse of an open tailgate behind him confirmed he'd just been pulled from the bed of a pickup.

"Get him up."

On Carrie's order, the two hunters each hooked an arm through Sam's and roughly sat him up. Between the sudden change in orientation and the drugs still in his system, he would have toppled right over had they not held on to him. His eyes widened as the third man stepped forward, running his thumb along the edge of a large knife. Instinctively, Sam fought his captors' hold but bound as he was, he was easily restrained.

The man with the knife smiled coldly as he grabbed Sam's T-shirt, slipped the blade edge under the hem and sliced upwards all the way to the neck. He pulled open the two halves, exposing Sam's chest, then stepped back, his expression unreadable as he turned to speak to someone cloaked in the shadows. "Yeah, he's got one, too."

_What the hell did that mean_? Sam's focus was pulled toward the sound of small heels tapping on concrete – a woman's footsteps – somewhere off to the left. When she stepped out of the shadows, Sam recognized her.

Dean's voice ran through his head. _"I've already fired off opening salvos to the brunette goddess at two o'clock..." _The woman now standing beside Carrie was the one Dean had hooked up with in the bar. Sam's stomach lurched. If she was involved in this – whatever _this _was – where the hell was Dean? What had she done to him?

The Creole woman shook her head as she walked up to Sam, shooting a look of contempt at Carrie. "All this, because you couldn't do your job and get him into your bed."

Carrie looked like she was about to retort something but quickly thought better of it.

The brunette turned to Sam. "And you… you should have gone with her. It would have been a far more pleasant way to fill the time until we needed you."

The gag made Sam's demand for answers unintelligible, but his intensified struggles to free himself earned a savage blow to the temple from the shorter hunter. The punch snapped his head to the left and slammed his brain into his skull. He sagged in his captors' hold, fighting to stay conscious.

"Merde." The woman glared at the hunter. "You seem to have a problem with orders, Monsieur Wandell. I thought we made it clear he's not to be damaged."

Wandell. That name cut through the haze in Sam's head like a machete. The hunter – he was Steve Wandell's brother. This… this was payback for him killing Steve while possessed by Meg.

Wandell glared back at the brunette. "He's breathing – and that was a major concession on my part. Don't push it."

"Oh, it's not me who's pushing things..." The Creole woman visibly reined in her anger, forcing a smile. "Fortunately for you, nothing you've done is irreversible." She turned her attention to Sam. "Now, the tattoo, that _is_ a problem…."

_The tattoo?_ Sam's battered brain tried to process what was happening. _What the hell did his tattoo have to do with this?_

The man with the knife stared down at his prisoner. "What if I get rid of it… slice it out of him." He moved up and jammed the tip of the blade into Sam's sternum, just below the tattoo.

The brunette shot him a condescending look. "Your knife will have no effect."

"Really?" The man's arm jerked sideways, slashing the blade across Sam's biceps.

Sam flinched, grunting behind the gag as bright red blood quickly filled the gash, then ran down his arm.

"Isn't that the effect you wanted?" Sam's tormentor smiled smugly as he moved the knife to the tattoo, but that smile slipped quickly as his hand shook, some unseen force stopping him from slicing into the skin there.

Sam's eyes widened at the prickling sensation under the tattoo, at the skin reddening within the ink as the mystical symbol seemingly fended off the attack. OK. That was new.

"C'est sa couillon!" the woman hissed, knocking the man's hand – and the knife – away from Sam. "How many times must I say it… he will not be harmed. Not here, not now." She gestured at the tattoo. "As for that, whoever inked that symbol knows their spellwork. It's protection is permanent." She moved in front of Carrie and ripped the tape from Sam's mouth. "Is that not so, mon cher?"

Sam's mouth felt pasty and sour and it took a moment to get his voice to work; when he did, it was quiet and rough. "Where's my brother?"

"Dean?" The woman ran her hand down Sam's face, affecting a mock pout when he jerked away from her touch. "He's fine. He'll join us soon…. He has a role to play in this, just as you do."

"I don't understand why you let him walk away, Parise." Carrie shook her head. "I mean, you had him. You could've just-"

"You question me?" Parise's response was sharp and fear flashed briefly in Carrie's eyes. "I accomplished what I set out to do, which is more than I can say for you." She turned back to Sam. "By taking this one, we've stopped them leaving town. By the time we need him, we'll have Dean."

"You leave him the hell alone." Sam's voice cracked as he spat out the words.

"Relax, cher. You need to regain the strength this man's poison has stolen from you," Parise traced her finger around the outline of Sam's tattoo, "while I need to open this lock."

That confused the man with the knife. "What's the big deal with the tattoo? It's just-"

"Tuat t'en grosse bueche, DaCoste," Parise hissed at him before turning back to Sam. She pulled her hand from her pocket, unfurled it and blew the powder within into Sam's face.

The dizzy, disconnected feeling Sam had experienced in the motel room returned with a vengeance.

"Move him to the camp." Parise dusted off her hands. "Tell Ti-Jean to keep him in the peristyle. The heat of the bayou will soon sweat out Wandell's poison. I'll be in touch as soon as I find a way to break the tattoo."

Carrie frowned. "You think it's possible?"

"Of course. If there's a spell to create the protection, there's a spell to undo it." Parise turned to Wandell. "In the meantime, you and your goons stay clear of the brother and make sure this one keeps breathing, tu-comprends?" When he nodded tersely, she turned to leave. "Carrie, come with me." The two women quickly disappeared back into the shadows.

"Don't… you…." Sam couldn't get his voice to work. The men holding him up let go and without their support he collapsed, grunting as he landed painfully on his bound arms. Unable to move but still semi-conscious, this time he was fully aware of the men smirking down at him as they lifted the lid and once more fastened him inside the crate.

**Continued in Chapter Two…**

_**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed. Much more to come. Thanks so much for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

**SUMMARY:** _Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean – this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them._

**SPOILERS:** _Set late in Season 7. References to canon incidents through Season 6, and some oblique references to a couple of Season 7 incidents but no plot spoilers for anything in Season 7. This is a casefic which takes place in-between canon hunts._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words (as Jensen once called them), adult situations, and violence, although nothing graphic  
_

**WORD COUNT:**_ 30K+_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort/Adventure_

******A/N:**_ A great big thank you to all of you who read Chapter One. A shout out, too, to those of you who were kind enough to leave some feedback but didn't sign in. I can't thank you privately, so I'll do it here - THANK YOU! _

_This fic is written for JaniceC678, based on a plot bunny she kindly gave me to play with. The full prompt will appear at the end of the story so as not to spoil things. Beta-ed by the always awesome Harrigan. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining goofs are mine and mine alone. __Enjoy. _**  
**

**BLOOD OF THE BAYOU**

**By Scullspeare**

**Chapter Two**

"A blonde woman left first - three men a minute or so later. The guy in your photo there - man, was he drunk. The other two were basically carrying him."

Standing outside the motel room three doors down from his own, talking to witnesses to Sam's kidnapping, Dean had to fight to maintain his FBI facade.

After spending the night making phone calls, not caring who he was waking up in the search for his brother, he had little. The cops had no reports of any disturbance at or near the motel and any hunter he trusted in the area had either heard nothing about Sam or had yet to return his messages. His only lead was a powder he'd found on the carpet of their room, near the bloodstain; it wasn't sulfur but, beyond that, Dean didn't know what the hell it was. He'd strong-armed the New Orleans Police into hauling a lab tech out of bed to analyze it for the _FBI,_ but was still awaiting the results.

At first light he'd started banging on doors in the motel, flashing his FBI badge in search of eyewitnesses. It was a long-shot – the usual clientele at these places were notoriously uncooperative – but, for once, the gamble paid off. A young family, heading from south Texas to Florida for a new job, had been forced to make an unscheduled stop in the wake of car trouble. The Wilsons had checked in late the previous night, and seen two men load Sam into a black pick-up.

"First, he wasn't drunk - he was being taken against his will." The muscle along Dean's jaw jumped as he slipped Sam's photo back in his pocket. "Second, this blonde - was she tall, pretty, long hair, legs up to her neck?"

Jim Wilson, standing in the open door of his room, his wife and two kids sitting on the edge of the bed behind him, nodded.

Son of a bitch. The blonde chick from the bar was somehow tangled up in this mess. "And you saw her with the men who took Sam?"

Jim shook his head. "Technically, no. We'd just checked in and were pulling up in front of our room when she came out. She closed the door and crossed the parking lot. I didn't see where she went. The three men came out right after I turned off the engine."

"Sam… the one who seemed drunk – was he talking? Or the others? Did you hear them say anything about where they were going?"

Again, Jim shook his head. "The two doing the carrying were laughing, making fun of the drunk for not being able to hold his liquor…." He lowered his voice so his kids couldn't hear. "Said his wife was gonna kill him when they took him home for being so plastered, never mind checking in here and calling for a hooker."

Dean's scowl deepened. "So they knew you'd seen them?"

Jim nodded. "They made no attempt to hide, and that's why I thought that guy was just drunk. Believe me, if we had any idea he was being kidnapped, we would have called the cops."

Dean wanted to put his fist through a wall. "What about the two men? What'd they look like?"

Jim folded his arms as he leaned against the door. "One guy was black, shaved head, muscular – a bouncer type, you know? The other guy was white, middle-aged, wore jeans, a ball cap, plaid shirt."

Dean scribbled the info in his notebook, more for appearances than anything. "And you said the vehicle was a late model black pick-up?"

Jim nodded.

"Don't suppose you got a license plate?"

Jim shook his head. "I'm sorry, Agent Smith. It was late, we'd spent all day and almost every cent to our name getting the car fixed. I hated having to bring my family to this dump in the first place, and when I saw that man get thrown into the truck, my only thought was getting my wife and kids inside and locking the door."

"The truck was real dirty." This was from the Wilsons' eight-year-old son, seated on the bed beside his mom. "When I see cars like that at the mall, I write _Wash Me_ in the dirt."

"Brandon, hush." His mom wrapped her arm around the boy's shoulders as she bounced her two-year-old on her knee. "Once Daddy's helped the FBI, we can go."

"Hey, every little bit helps. Thanks, Brandon." Dean smiled at the boy. "You notice anything else about the truck, anything that might help me find it?"

Brandon screwed up his face. "My daddy gave me a notebook just like yours when we started this trip – said I should look at all the license plates and write down the ones I'd never seen before. You know, where they came from." He shrugged. "I looked at the truck's license plate, but it was just Louisiana. I've seen lots of those. Besides, I could only see the first two letters…. The rest were covered in mud."

Dean's heart skipped a beat. "You remember what those letters were – the ones you could see?"

Brandon nodded. "It was the alphabet. A-B. If the third letter was 'C' I was gonna write it down 'cause that's cool. But I couldn't see it." The little boy's face crumpled with disappointment at not being able to help. "Sorry."

Dean shook his head. "Don't be sorry. You did great."

Brandon brightened at the praise. "It had a gold star, too – like the ones the teacher gives me when I read stuff out loud and don't mess up."

Dean frowned. "A gold star?"

Brandon nodded. "On a flag. It was kinda like the Texas flag – that's where we're from. But that doesn't make sense. Why would somebody from Louisiana have the Texas flag on their truck?"

"You're a smart kid, Brandon. You'd make a good cop."

Suddenly shy, the little boy dropped his head, his longish hair falling over his eyes - just like Sam's used to do at that age. Dean's throat tightened as he turned back to Jim. "One last question. Which way did the truck drive off?"

Jim waved his hand to the left. "That way."

Dean nodded. "Thanks for your time. Have a safe trip."

He walked quickly back to his room, slammed shut the door, and loosened his tie as he began pacing. His brother had returned to the motel with the blonde from the bar after all. "Good one, Dean." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Push Sam to hook up with a psycho bitch."

Sam's bed was still made and his computer open on top of it so there had likely been no action between them – that was something, but was the blonde just bait for his brother's kidnapping or something more?

Instinct told him the two men were hunters. They'd put on an act for unexpected witnesses; Big Mouths and demons either wouldn't give a crap about covering their tracks, or simply wouldn't have left him any witnesses to interview. But why the hell would hunters be after Sam now? His psychic abilities and demon-killing powers had been AWOL since his return from Hell, and there'd been no recent rumblings about anyone targeting his brother. Walt and Roy had – wisely – gone underground since finding out Dean had made good on his pledge to return from the dead. Tim and Reggie, who'd tried to force-feed Sam demon blood to make him hulk on demand, had backed off their vendetta since Sam sacrificed himself to re-cage Lucifer. They were still out there hunting, but he'd heard nothing to suggest Sam was back in their sights.

Then there was Steve Wandell's crew. Wandell's brother and daughter had no way of knowing Meg was possessing Sam when he'd killed the hunter, and avenging a family member was the kind of grudge that never just went away.

Fuck, it could be anyone. Hunting meant they pissed off people daily. Dean pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair. He'd drive himself crazy with _what ifs_; he had to stick to facts, even if the best lead he had was a partial plate courtesy of an eight-year-old.

He turned to stare out the window, across the parking lot and to the street beyond. According to Jim Wilson, the truck had turned left – the same direction he and Sam had walked the previous night on the way to the bar. He closed his eyes, replaying the route in his mind's eye; they'd passed at least three gas stations. All no doubt had outdoor security cameras. His FBI badge would get him access to the footage and maybe, just maybe, one of the cameras had captured an image of the truck and/or its occupants.

Dean's phone beeped and he yanked it from his pocket, glancing at the screen; it was an e-mail from the New Orleans police lab telling him the analysis of the dust sample had been completed and the report was attached. Clicking open the attachment, his heart rate picked up as he read the results.

The dust was a mixture of herbs with hallucinogenic and sedative properties and pulverized bone – human bone. "Son of a bitch." He knew what that was.

It was bone dust – used in Bo, or dark side Voodoo.

Dean sank down onto the edge of the bed. Bone dust was rare, used almost exclusively by bokors, Bo's sorcerers or dark priests, to test a follower's loyalty. The person was forced to inhale the dust; if the demands of the loa, or spirits, they worshiped had been followed, the dust would have no effect. If they hadn't, the follower would either hallucinate and be told how to repent, fall ill as punishment, or drop dead on the spot. Among its side effects, bone dust also took the fight out of a victim quickly, and opened them up to the power of suggestion, something the bokor often took advantage of.

But why would bone dust be used on Sam? And how the hell did two hunters get their hands on it? Its formula was a zealously guarded secret and, simply put, bokors didn't deal.

Dean stared down at his phone, then scrolled quickly through his address book to _J. Delacroix _and hit send. Jack was a hunter, born and raised in New Orleans. These days he lived a few hours east in Mississippi but he knew more about Bo and the bokor than almost any hunter still breathing. A close friend of Pastor Jim's, he was also on a very short list of casual acquaintances Dean trusted. He'd left one message already, but had yet to hear back from him.

"_Yeah?_"

"Jack. It's Dean Winchester. Don't you listen to your freaking messages?"

"_When I'm not sleeping. Morning to you, too. What's up?"_

"Sam's missing. We're in the Big Easy and he got dragged from our room last night. Hunters took him, but they used bone dust. You heard of any of our kind in bed with a bokor?"

"_What the hell have you two stepped in?"_

"Damned if I know." Dean shoved himself up and began pacing. "We came to town for a straight-up 'geist hunt. Spirit is toast, we were hitting the road today. I came back last night, room was a mess, Sam was gone and there was bone dust on the floor. Witnesses described a salt and pepper, Mutt and Jeff team. That sound like any hunters you know?"

"_Yeah – half of 'em." _Jack exhaled loudly. "_I ain't heard of any unholy alliances but there is trouble brewing in New Orleans and it involves a bokor_ – _Ti-Jean L'Esperance. To say he's a nasty son of bitch is being kind. He's the third generation of his family to serve as a dark priest, but for the past month or so, there've been rumblings someone's out to take him down."_

"Hunters?"

"_Uh-uh. Someone wants his job - and Ti-Jean ain't gonna give it up without a fight. From what I hear, he's been_ _messing with darker and darker shades of black magic to make damn sure he doesn't get ousted from office."_

Dean's stomach lurched. "And you think this is somehow tied in with Sam being taken?"

"_Bone dust used in a kidnapping right when a bokor power struggle is about to come to a head?_" Jack snorted. "_I don't believe in coincidence, son. And from what I recall, neither do you._"

Dean's mind was spinning, trying to put the pieces together. "But... my gut still says the men who took Sam were hunters, and they had a blonde chick with them. Maybe they're all on the bokor's leash. Hell, could the blonde be this rival mambo or bokor, or whatever they're calling a Voodoo sorceress these days?"

_"If this blonde is a player in Bo, she's new in town. I ain't heard of no blonde mambo in these parts."_

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "What the fuck, Jack? How the hell did Sam end up in the middle of a Voodoo turf war?

_"__That's the $64,000 question, ain't it_?" Jack exhaled loudly. "Just _what kind of shit have you two been stirring up lately?"_

"All kinds, every day – but nothing to do with Voodoo." Dean shook his head. "Hell, we haven't touched a Voodoo case since… since before Sam left Stanford. And that was me, not him. If that was behind this, I'd be the one MIA."

Jack was silent for a moment. "_I'm about three hours from New Orleans but I'm gonna head your way. I'll make some calls, find out what I can, but some people who may have answers are only gonna give'em face-to-face so it might take some time_. _Where you at?"_

"The Crawfish Motel. But just call this number, I'm heading out." Dean grabbed his jacket and his keys from the dresser. "Where do I find this Ti-Jean?"

"_You stay the hell away from him 'til we know what's what."_

"Don't talk to me like I'm fucking four." Dean's temper got the best of him. "If this bastard has Sam-"

"_Then you better damn well be prepared when you do take him on so that you and Sam both walk away." _ Jack sounded like Dad and Bobby all rolled into one. "_You listen to me, boy. Ti-Jean is a con-man, but he is a master of black magic, no joke."_

Dean's eyes flashed. "Color me impressed."

"_You should be. Plenty of us have tried to take him out over the years and, like the snake he is, he's always managed to wriggle free and take down an awful lot of good people in the process." _Jack's voice softened_. "Look, if they wanted your brother dead, you would've come back to a corpse on the floor. You know that. The fact they took him-"_

"Says they need him alive." The fire in Dean's belly went out suddenly, extinguished by cold dread. "And that scares the crap out of me."

Jack gave a worried huff._ "I know, but I need you to think like a hunter, not a brother._"

Dean nodded; Jack was right. "I've got a lead on the truck the kidnappers used. I'm gonna follow that."

"_Good_. _I'll call as soon as I get close to town._ _Hang in there."_ With that, Jack hung up.

Dean clicked off the phone and glanced again at the road where the truck carrying Sam had disappeared. "Like Jack said, what the hell have we stepped in, Sammy?" He cleared his throat. "But don't you worry, I'm gonna get you back. You just show'em what a pain in the ass you can be 'til I do."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Once the guard opened the chain-link gates, Mike Wandell continued driving along the gravel road that wound through the swamp, finally pulling into the clearing in front of a big cabin. The morning sun was just peeking over the tree canopy as he shoved the pick-up's gearshift into park and turned off the engine.

"What do you think they're gonna do with him?" His partner, Maillet, sat in the shotgun seat staring suspiciously at the cabin.

"Winchester?" Wandell glanced through the rear window to the covered truck bed where the crate containing their prisoner was stashed. "Dunno, but I'm damn sure it won't end well for him and that's all I care about."

Maillet swallowed. "So… no regrets about dealing with the bokor?"

Wandell snorted. "My only regret is not getting to take out the kid myself. After what he did to Steve…." He cleared his throat. "Whatever. Bottom line, Winchester gets what's coming to him, and we get a bokor in our debt. That's win-win in my book."

Maillet looked skeptical. "If we call in that debt, you really think Ti-Jean's gonna pay up? The son of a bitch has short-changed me more than once."

"Then you're the fool for letting him." Wandell checked the gun holstered under his jacket. "Look past the mumbo-jumbo and he's just human. He screws us, it'll be my pleasure to put a bullet in the smug bastard."

The squeal of screen door hinges drew their attention to the cabin; Ti-Jean and his lapdog DaCoste emerged, walking down the wooden steps as the door clanged shut behind them.

DaCoste tapped his watch as Wandell climbed out of the truck. "'Bout time. You stop for breakfast on the way?"

"Fuck you." Wandell scowled at the crack. "Maybe if you'd stayed to help us load the kid back into the truck, we could have been here sooner. You may have noticed, he ain't little."

"Stop bickering like children." Ti-Jean's deep voice shut them up, but his attention was locked on the truck. "Get him out. I want to see him."

With a glare at DaCoste, Wandell turned back to the truck. He and Maillet peeled back the canvas bed cover to reveal the crate inside. They pulled it from the truck, set it down on the ground and yanked off the lid.

Inside, Sam's eyes slammed shut at the sudden light, then peeled open slowly, blinking as he took in the faces above him. His arms were still fastened behind his back, long hair plastered to his flushed face, his slashed T-shirt stuck to the contours of his chest, dark with sweat. The anger in his eyes was unmistakable even in his weakened state.

Ti-Jean stared down at his prisoner, a slow smile spreading across his face, as if he'd just been handed a coveted prize. He crouched down and reached out, pressing his hand flat against Sam's chest.

Sam flinched at his touch, glaring up at Ti-Jean. "Get the hell off..." His voice was barely audible, more a dry croak.

The bokor ignored him, his eyes closed as he muttered something under his breath, the words indecipherable to the men around him. Then his eyes snapped open suddenly, and he yanked back his hand.

Wandell caught a fleeting – and unexpected – glimpse of fear on Ti-Jean's face. The hunter scowled down at Sam; what the hell was there about this kid that could rattle a bokor?

"His loa is... scarred. I've never felt... But, the power... there's so much potential..." Suddenly aware he was thinking aloud, Ti-Jean quickly schooled his features and turned to DaCoste. "He's dehydrated. Get some fluids into him. I want him strong when the time comes." He shot a look of contempt at Wandell. "And I want the hunter's poison flushed from him."

DaCoste nodded and disappeared back into the cabin.

Wandell snorted in disgust. "Winchester's plenty strong – Maillet's black eye is proof of that. As for what I shot him up with, if cats and dogs can deal with it, a horse like him will be fine."

Ti-Jean stepped in front of Wandell, towering over him. "You were told to use the dust, nothing more."

"Look, Ti-Jean, you wanted the kid, I got you the kid." Wandell glared up at the bokor. "Now, let's talk payment."

Ti-Jean smiled unexpectedly. "Let's."

Wandell never saw Ti-Jean's hand move, but suddenly he was choking on the dust blown in his face.

Ti-Jean's eyes narrowed. "We'll leave it to the loa to decide payment for your service."

Wandell couldn't breathe; he felt like he was drowning on dry land. He clawed at his throat, desperately trying to draw in air but his lungs had seized, his throat closed tight. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, eyes widening as he stared up at the bokor.

The bigger man's cold smile returned. "It seems that the loa have decided it is you who must pay them."

Those were the last words Wandell heard. He was dead before he hit the ground.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam couldn't seem to clear the fog from his head, but he was pretty damn sure he'd just watched the hunter – Wandell – drop dead. He wanted to sit up and see where the man had fallen, make sure he wasn't hallucinating, but he couldn't get his body to co-operate.

He could see Ti-Jean though, the big man's cold smile now directed at Wandell's partner.

"Do you demand payment also?"

Wandell's partner said nothing, just gave his head a terse shake.

The squeak of the screen door pulled Ti-Jean's attention to the cabin. A man – the knife-wielding man from the warehouse – stood at the top of the steps holding a bottle of water, staring down at Wandell's corpse.

Ti-Jean chuckled. "Surely you're not shocked, DaCoste? Wandell went against the wishes of the loa. It should be no surprise he failed the test."

Sam screwed his eyes closed, trying to process what Ti-Jean said. Loa? Those were Voodoo spirits. What the hell did Voodoo have to do with all this?

Ti-Jean turned again to the man on the stairs. "Take care of the boy. Now - before the loa ask me to test you, too!"

DaCoste swallowed, moved quickly down the stairs and crossed over to the crate.

Sam groaned involuntarily as Wandell's partner wrestled him into a sitting position, then scowled as he was smacked in the face.

"Come on, kid, wake up. We need to get some water in you."

The hunter moved behind him, supporting him as Sam's head fell back. Sam jumped when DaCoste slapped his cheek, this time more forcefully.

"Wake up."

Sam scowled at him, then coughed and choked as DaCoste held the bottle to his mouth and poured the water, none too carefully, down his throat.

"Drown him and the same fate awaits you," Ti-Jean hissed in the background.

Sam coughed up as much water as he was able to swallow but, damn, it felt good in his parched mouth. DaCoste tried again, this time taking more care. They'd force-fed him more than half the bottle before Sam rolled his head away.

Ti-Jean nodded, seemingly satisfied and the hunter lowered Sam back into the crate. Ti-Jean then bent down, pulling aside his prisoner's sweat- and water-drenched T-shirt to study Sam's tattoo. Sam frowned; the tattoo again. Why the hell were they so fascinated with his tattoo?

Ti-Jean's expression darkened, but he said nothing until he stood up. "Take him to the peristyle, secure him there. And take care no further harm comes to him." He shot a look at Wandell's body. "Throw that in the river – our friends are hungry. They-"

Sam never heard the end of Ti-Jean's directive as consciousness drifted away. He was completely unaware of being lifted from the crate and carried off through the trees.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Tie straightened, Dean slipped on his jacket, yanked open the door and almost ran smack into Parise, who was standing in the doorway about to knock.

She stepped back, startled. "Dean… hey."

"Parise." Dean frowned, thrown by her unannounced appearance. "What are you doing here? How did you even know where to find me?"

Parise pouted playfully. "Nice to see you, too, mon cher." She shook her head. "You told me last night… said you'd given up the room here to your brother. It's how we ended up at my place, remember?"

Dean's frown deepened. He'd had a fair amount to drink the night before but not giving away their home base was S.O.P. Even drunk out of his gourd he didn't make rookie mistakes like that. "Look, I don't mean to be rude but I'm… late for work."

Parise nodded. "I just wanted to return these." She held up a small carrier bag and smiled. "Boxers and socks – freshly washed." She winked at him. "They turned up when I put the room back together."

Dean absently took the bag and dropped it on the chair just inside the room, Parise's words from the night before suddenly spinning through his head - _"… a direct descendant of Marie Laveau…." "Throw in a few Cajun words and a Juju doll…._" Voodoo references were second nature to her. OK, juju dolls were in every tourist shop in the city and Marie Laveau's name plastered on everything from soap to candy bars, but now he knew Bo could be linked to Sam's disappearance, it was another coincidence he couldn't ignore.

"Dean?" Parise wore a puzzled smile at his silence.

"Um, thanks – for the clothes." Dean pulled the door shut behind him. "I really have to go."

"Of course, of course…." Parise's face crumpled with worry as she reached out and touched his arm. "Something is wrong. There is a great fear that… that wasn't there last night."

If this was an act, she was damn good. Her concern seemed completely genuine. Fine; he'd put it to the test. "One of my co-workers didn't show up today. It's not like him and his family's worried. We're all worried, but we'll find him. I'll find him." Dean's eyes narrowed, watching for any tell she knew what he was talking about, but there was only apparent surprise and alarm.

"I'm so sorry. Look, if his family is open to it, I may be able to help." Parise reached into her purse and pulled out a business card, offering it to Dean. "Give them this. I know we laughed about my _mojo_, but my gift is real. Whatever I can do…."

Dean studied Parise, the unsettled feeling back in full force. It was way more than the usual morning-after-the-night-before-awkwardness. But it wasn't what she said that sparked his Spidey senses, as much as what she didn't say – he was standing there in a suit and tie after telling her he worked in pest control and that hadn't even raised an eyebrow. He slipped her card in his pocket and offered a tight smile. "I'll keep that in mind. If they're interested, I'll be in touch."

She smiled and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Take care, mon cher. I hope your friend returns home safely."

He nodded, then quickly moved off to his car. Crossing the parking lot, Parise gave him a friendly wave as she reached her own vehicle. As Dean pulled out onto the road, he grabbed his phone and hit redial.

Jack answered on the second ring. "_Dean_? _Something happen?_"

"Maybe." Dean glanced back through the rearview mirror. "What do you know about a local psychic named Parise DuBois?"

"_Parise?" _Jack sounded surprised._ "Damn, I haven't heard that name in years. Where'd you pick up on it?_"

"Met her last night at a bar about a block from our motel."

"_She's in New Orleans_?"

"Yeah." Dean frowned. "So, you know her?"

"_Kind of. I knew her daddy, Bill. He was a good ol' Cajun boy like me. He fell hard for a Creole woman named Marie LaSalle_." Jack whistled. "_Sweeter than a praline she was. They got married, were building a nice life together… 'til a drunk driver put an end to it. Ran Bill off the road on his way home from work when Parise was about five. _

"_Marie was devastated. She'd always followed Voodoo but stayed in the light until Bill was killed. Then she kinda went off the deep end, said she couldn't live without him and started asking her priest to bring him back. When he told her no, that the loa frowned upon such things, she turned to Ti-Jean and the dark side."_

Dean scowled into the phone as he turned into the closest of the three gas stations. "Did he do it? Bring her husband back, I mean."

"_No, but the drunk driver who hit Bill died mysteriously in jail awaiting trial."_

Dean shoved the car into park. "And you think Ti-Jean hocus-pocus'ed him into an early grave for revenge?"

Jack snorted_. "He's done far worse for less. Marie and Parise were part of his loyal flock from there on in. Marie died – cancer, I think – when her daughter was about fifteen, and Ti-Jean became Parise's guardian 'til she finished school. She left the state to go to college, and kind of turned her back on New Orleans after that. Settled up in New York, as I recall. She's been off my radar since then."_

Dean frowned. "But you know all the players in this neck of the woods, know she's tied to Ti-Jean - you had no clue she was back in town?"

_"No - and, trust me, that sticks in my craw. But when you're dealing with the kind of black magic Ti-Jean's wrapped up in, they got plenty of ways to block us... hide what they're up to."_

Dean's scowl deepened. "Look, I'm suspicious on a good day, and today's anything but…. But we have a woman with psychic abilities, raised by a bokor. She drops off the Bo map for twelve years then shows up again, right when that bokor is facing his biggest threat, from someone nobody can identify. To me that says one of two things – she's either here to back him up, or-"

"_To take him down." _Jack whistled_. "Damn, you think she's the rival bokor."_

"Ding, ding, ding." Dean shook his head. "You wanna take down a dark priest, what better place to hide than right under his nose, pretending you're there to help."

"_It would take some pretty powerful spellwork to keep Ti-Jean in the dark." _Jack cleared his throat._ "I say we need to find out what that little lady's been up to for the past twelve years."_

**xxxXXXxxx**

Parise's cell phone rang as she watched Dean drive away. She answered without checking the caller ID, knowing who it would be. "Ti-Jean."

"_You have the other Winchester?"_

"Not yet. It's best we wait."

"_It is not for you to decide what's best_." Ti-Jean's deep voice was dangerously low. "_The loa demand we take him_."

Parise's knuckles whitened as she twisted the fabric of her skirt, but her voice did not betray her building anger. She'd learned a long time ago to mask her true feelings. "Exploit weakness… that's what you taught me. Each brother's biggest weakness is the other. You have Sam, so Dean's focus is solely on getting him back. While he's… occupied, that gives us time to prepare. Far better than trying to cage two lions just waiting to tear off our heads, ne c'est-pas?"

Ti-Jean sounded suspicious. "_Or is it that you've gone soft for this man? The hunter casting a spell on the witch_?"

Parise twisted the fabric a little tighter. "I'm just being practical. We need time." She frowned, this time genuinely puzzled. "The loa did not reveal to me the tattoo… as a test, perhaps?"

"_Indeed. A reminder that you are still the apprentice… that you still have much to learn."_ Ti-Jean's impatience was evident. "_If the loa are pleased when the Blood Moon rises, my place will be secured – and, with it, so is yours. If the loa are displeased, it's not my wrath you need fear_."

Parise forced a smile into her voice. "Dean will be ours when we need him. The loa will have no cause to be displeased with me on that." She stared down the road where Dean's car had disappeared moments earlier, and frowned. "The bond between the brothers, the loa that guide them… I've never sensed anything like it."

Ti-Jean's laugh was cold. "_And that is exactly why we need them."_

"Of course." Parise frowned at the images suddenly flashing through her head. "Tell those couillons you have working for you to watch Sam closely. He –"

"_You let me worry about the boy_." Ti-Jean's voice was harsh now. "_Find the spell and bring the brother to me by sundown._"

Ti-Jean hung up before Parise could respond.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Consciousness returned slowly this time. Lifting his head with a groan and blinking to force his vision to focus, Sam glanced around to get his bearings; it was light – which meant he wasn't in the crate anymore. For that simple fact, he said a silent thank you.

Even as the fog of drug-induced sleep lingered, the hunter in him took over, assessing his surroundings, gathering information to aid in escape.

He was lying on the dirt floor of an empty room and he was alone. There was a single door in the wall opposite him with a small window just to the left of it. He could see daylight through gaps in the raw wooden boards that made up the walls, and the rafters above him were exposed; the _room_ was more likely a shack or storage shed or some kind.

Sunlight forced its way through the window's grimy glass. Given the angle of the shadows, it was late morning, but Sam had no clue which morning; he could've been unconscious for hours, or days.

Sam tried to sit up but grunted as pain shot through his shoulders; he was still restrained, his hands tied behind his back around some kind of slim, wooden support column near the center of the room. His ankles were bound too, but thankfully, the tape that the woman had ripped from his face had not been replaced. His feet were still bare, but now so was his torso, his slashed T-shirt disappearing at some point while he was out cold.

Sam pushed himself up with a groan, then leaned heavily on the column at his back while he waited for the room to stop spinning. He closed his eyes and listened. It was quiet. Real quiet. There was no traffic, no trolleys, no voices… just the buzz of insects that had found their way through the gaps in the walls, and the distant splashing of water.

"_Take him to the peristyle, secure him there_."

Ti-Jean's orders filtered into his memory. _Peristyle_ – that was a type of Voodoo church. He glanced around; the pole he was secured to was in the center, there was a dirt floor and behind him an altar covered in clay pots, glass jars, and candles. Those all fit. He froze as he took in the elaborate design which decorated the floor around the perimeter of the room. What could be mistaken for a foot-wide carpet, but was actually a piece of ceremonial artwork known as a veve. Powders in shades of brick red, white, black and soft yellow were poured onto the floor to form hundreds of occult symbols, honoring the pantheon of Bo loas, or gods. Creating it was an incredibly intricate, labor-intensive process and done only for heavy-duty ceremonies. That meant something big was in the works – and soon, given it was almost complete - and he was right smack in the middle of it.

"One problem at a time, dude," Sam muttered as he shifted his attention to getting himself free. He'd been tied up when he came to in the warehouse, so to secure him to this post, his kidnappers would have first had to separate his wrists, and that meant removing the original tape. _And if they were lazy…._ Sam wrestled with his restraints, testing them out and, for the first time since the two hunters barged into the motel room, he smiled. The most efficient way to get tape off wrists was to cut through it, which his captors had done. But they hadn't removed the old tape when they'd re-bound his wrists; they'd just added more. The cut tape inside allowed his wrists to move, which gave him some play. With time, he could work the tape, stretch it and, ultimately, pull a hand free.

Time. Sam wondered just how much he had. Logic suggested his captors would be routinely checking up on him, but he had no way of knowing what that routine was. He kept an eye on the window as he worked at the tape and sifted through the few facts he knew.

Ti-Jean seemed to be calling the shots, which would make him the bokor. The woman from the warehouse, the one Dean had met at the bar, had been giving orders there and was likely the mambo, or priestess, serving as the bokor's second-in-command. Carrie answered to the mambo which made her a hounsis or novice priestess, perhaps?

Then there was Wandell, the hunter. If payback was his only motivation, he could have killed Sam at the motel. Instead, he'd handed Sam over to the bokor. Why? Ti-Jean had killed Wandell so it seemed pretty clear that hunter and bokor were not fighting for the same cause. Sam could still see the big bokor's face, dark eyes boring into him. No. He wanted something from Sam, and it had nothing to do with Wandell's revenge.

As Sam worked to free himself from the tape, he glanced down at his tattoo.

"_Yeah, he's got one, too_."

Both the bokor and the woman at the warehouse had seemed taken aback by his tattoo. The 'too' meant the woman had obviously seen Dean's – no real surprise there given his brother's plans when he left the bar with her. But she also knew what it meant, rightly guessing that Sam would have the same protection from possession.

"_This has just… delayed things, not changed them."_

Those words made Sam shudder. Was the end goal of all this possession of some kind? Possession played a major role in Voodoo. The priests, dark and light, could communicate with the loa, act as their spokesmen, but if a spirit wanted to speak directly to followers, it could also possess a person, ride them for as long as it deemed necessary. Unlike demons, however, loa didn't like roommates; when they took over a body, the human soul was kicked out. The soul, in theory, was tethered to the host body and would bungee back in when the loa vacated the premises, but there were stories of the tether snapping and the soul being lost. Unclaimed by Heaven or Hell, it quickly became a formless angry spirit while the body lived on as a zombie.

Sam shuddered; he was still haunted by his possession by Meg, not to mention his actions while soulless. There were only a few things he could think of that would be worse than reliving either of those nightmares, but simultaneously becoming an angry spirit and a zombie was definitely one of them. Just another reason to get himself the hell out of there.

A shadow jumped across the glass, and Sam threw himself to the floor, feigning unconsciousness just before the door opened. Thanks to his long hair falling over his face, he could keep his eyes partially open and watch as booted feet crossed the floor toward him.

This man – his guard? – was alone. He carried a gun but the hand holding the weapon was relaxed at his side. That, and the lit cigarette hanging from his mouth suggested he wasn't expecting a fight. The man stepped closer, studying him; Sam closed his eyes, held his breath and listened. There was nothing until a sudden explosion of pain as the guard delivered a vicious kick to his prisoner's ribcage. Sam grunted involuntarily but maintained the pretense of unconsciousness.

Seemingly satisfied that the drugs or dust still had Sam in their grip, the guard turned to leave. Sam opened his eyes to see him pull a two-way radio from his belt and lift it to his mouth. "LeBlanc reporting in. Prisoner check confirmed. Out." With that, he stepped outside and closed the door.

Sam retched. Fuck – that hurt. But then, what didn't? His headache was a Category Five and building, his shoulders were burning and his legs were numb from being bound so long. Now he could add bruised ribs to the list. He snorted softly as he resumed trying to free his wrists. Apparently the _do no harm_ directive had yet to trickle down to the front line troops.

The guard came back three more times – every half hour or so by Sam's estimation – before Sam worked the tape loose enough to yank a hand free. When he did, his arms fell to his sides, feeling rubbery and weak. He'd expended a helluva lot of energy just getting loose – and this was the easy part.

Sam inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly as he leaned forward to pull the tape from his ankles. If the guard kept up the pattern, he'd check in again soon. Sam quickly had his legs free; with a surge of adrenaline, he shoved himself to his feet, only to crash onto his knees when the room tilted and pins and needles took his legs out from under him. Hissing at the pain of restored circulation, he shot a wary glance at the door, expecting the guard to come barreling back in to investigate the noise. When he didn't, Sam's chin dropped to his chest in relief. _Pull it together, Winchester_, he admonished himself. _To take out that guard, you gotta get moving… get your legs working_.

Again, Sam pushed himself up but this time kept a hand on the column until he was steady and then stumbled over to the wall behind the door, out of sight of the window and of anyone who came into the shack. The guard had a gun and Sam was a long way from full strength; one misstep and he'd either get himself shot or the guard would raise the alarm – either way he was screwed. Then, he waited.

When finally he heard the doorknob turn, Sam's chest tightened. His heart raced and muscles tensed in an instinctive fight or flight response. _Fight_ won; the guard barely had time for it to register that his prisoner was no longer tied to the post before Sam's fist slammed into his temple, snapping his head sideways and sending the gun flying from his grasp. A second punch sent him crashing to the ground, and Sam tumbling after him. Fueled by equal parts fury and adrenaline, Sam threw three more punches and the guard was out cold without ever throwing a counter-punch.

Sam staggered to his feet, snatched up the guard's Glock and dragged the man behind the door.

Curling his fingers around the gun made Sam feel a little less vulnerable, but what he really needed was a phone to warn Dean. Or did they have his brother locked up somewhere else? _Think, Sam. Think._ He ran a hand over his jaw; his stubble was short, barely a day's worth – that meant he'd likely been unconscious only overnight.

"_You and your goons stay clear of the brother…. _"

The woman at the warehouse had told the men to stay away from Dean while she figured out a way to break the tattoo's protection. He could only pray that was taking a while and Dean was still free.

Sam checked the guard's pockets – cigarettes, matches, a switchblade, but no phone. He started to push himself up, but scowled at his bare feet; if he had to run for it, he needed shoes. He pulled off one of the guard's boots, trying it against his own foot; it was about three sizes too small. No surprise there; post-growth spurt he'd always had a bitch of time finding shoes that fit. Dean had teased him mercilessly about the size of his feet and Dad surprisingly, had come to his defense. "_You're a big boy, son. If you didn't have big feet, you'd fall over_." The memory fueled a smile as Sam studied the boot and flicked open the switchblade. Maybe he could–

A loud splash outside grabbed his attention and sent his heart racing again. No voices followed but Sam's _flight _response now kicked into overdrive. He had to go. He dropped the boot but wrestled off the guard's shirt; the man was short but muscular so it looked like it would fit. It did, at least without fastening the buttons.

Moving quickly toward the door, Sam snatched up the two-way radio, pressed the _Talk_ button, and tried to mimic the guard's voice. "This is LeBlanc. Prisoner check confirmed. Out." He held his breath, expecting an angry demand to know, "_Who the hell is this_?", but like with the guard each time previously, the check-in was met with only radio silence. He exhaled in relief. That should give him a half-hour or so before anyone suspected anything was wrong; more if he took the walkie-talkie with him and kept up the false check-ins until he was a safe distance away.

But away from where? It hit Sam then that he didn't have a clue where he was. His captors had mentioned something about a 'camp' which likely meant outside the city, but was he a mile outside or a hundred?

Sam stepped cautiously outside, shielding his eyes against bright sun as he got his first look around. The 'peristyle' seemed to be an old fishing shack right on the bayou. There was a slow-moving river less than fifteen feet in front of him, a large fire pit halfway between the river and the shack, and the ground was cleared in a fifty-foot radius around the building. Trees along both banks were heavy with moss and narrow inlets on either side of the shack were thick with algae.

There was a small, decrepit wharf littered with sun-bleached crawfish traps that stretched out into the river but no boats were moored to it. It would be an easy swim to the far side – the river was less than fifty feet across – but there were no buildings, no roads, no other signs of civilization to run to. He glanced to each side of the shack; ditto – no other shacks, no other guards, just miles of tree-lined riverbank.

There was however, a rifle leaning against the wall and a box of cartridges on the window sill. Sam tucked the handgun into the waistband of his sweat pants and the walkie-talkie into the breast pocket of his shirt before snatching up the rifle. He checked to make sure rifle was loaded, dropped extra cartridges into the other breast pocket, then crept along the weathered veranda, cringing as the rotten wood groaned under each step. Peering around the corner, he saw a path that led through the trees away from the river but still no guards. This didn't make sense; they'd gone to a lot of effort to grab him – imitating Dean, the dust, the drugs, the damn crate – why leave him down here with just one guard?

The answer came with a sudden splash and a strange sound that was a cross between a cough and a hiss. Sam's head snapped toward the river in time to see two large – _very_ large – alligators breach the surface, move soundlessly through the water and pull themselves through the mud onto the shore, their unblinking gaze locked on Sam.

Alligators. That explained the rifle. Instinctively, Sam raised the weapon; a shot would scare off the gators, but it was also bring whoever was on the other end of that walkie-talkie to him in a hurry.

With no other viable option, Sam ran – flat out.

He jumped from the veranda and barreled along the path through the trees, raising his arm as protection against low-hanging branches and ignoring the pain in his feet as roots and rocks ripped into them. As he ran, his Dad's deep voice from a childhood hunt in the Everglades echoed through his head. "_Gators may look slow, Sammy, but they're damn fast, in the water and on land. Shooting them's your best bet, but if your only choice is to run, make sure you've got a helluva head start._"

Sam had covered nearly 500 yards before he dared slow down enough to glance over his shoulder; there was no sign of the gators.

He stumbled to a stop, falling to his knees and coughing as he fought to catch his breath. Warily, he scanned the trail ahead for any new signs of danger. The path continued curving through the trees toward some still-hidden destination, the ground on either side of it sloping steeply into swamp. He swallowed, eyeing the bracken water suspiciously; if there were gators in the river, god knows what was hiding under the swamp algae. Now he knew why there was just one guard: This path was the only way to and from the shack – the only access, the only means of escape. Mother Nature had all other options covered. All his captors had to do was watch wherever this trail came out.

Sam groaned loudly as he pushed himself to his feet, screwing up his face as the adrenaline ebbed and pain registered. Lifting his foot, he saw blood mixed with dirt covering his sole. Son of a bitch – why couldn't that guard have bigger feet? He hobbled forward, rifle raised. Paradoxically, with each step he was both closer to freedom, and to running into those who'd taken it from him.

Away from the river, it was sticky hot, the late season heat wave that had gripped Louisiana since they'd driven into the state still in full force. His borrowed shirt was quickly soaked through with sweat, his hair plastered to his head. He stumbled around yet another bend in the trail, and then threw himself behind the cover of a tree when the path opened suddenly into a large clearing.

On the far side, directly opposite Sam, a gravel driveway disappeared into the trees, likely wending toward a road. To the right was a large cabin, to the left an oversized garage of some sort, likely built to hold a boat as well as a vehicle.

Peering around the tree, he saw two men standing beside the wide wooden steps that led to the cabin door. Sam didn't recognize either one, but he doubted they knew of his escape; there had been no chatter on the radio and while each man carried a handgun, the weapons were holstered.

Sunlight glinting on metal drew his focus to the second building, and to an old Jeep parked beside it. If he couldn't get his hands on a phone, wheels were the next best thing. But to get to the vehicle, he would have to cross right in front of the guards. Both buildings backed onto swamp; to sneak behind them would mean wading through the swamp and the clear memory of the gators climbing onto bank by the shack told him that was a bad idea. Damn it. The place was set up like a fucking military compound – controlled access from every side. Anyone coming or going was forced into plain sight.

Sam shifted his focus to the guards as he sorted through his options; he could hunker down and stay hidden until dark, then pray there were enough shadows at the perimeter of the clearing for him to make it over to the Jeep. But the longer he waited, the greater the odds his escape would be discovered – and the more time that woman had to sink her claws into Dean.

His second option was riskier, especially since he had no idea how many people were in that cabin, but since he couldn't afford to wait, it was really his only choice.

He moved to a larger tree, positioning himself so he was hidden from both the trail and the clearing, pulled the radio from his pocket and lifted it to his mouth. "It's LeBlanc – the prisoner's loose! Repeat – the prisoner's loose! Damn couillon jumped in the river!" _Couillon _was Cajun for fool – or at least he hoped it was. Sam switched off the radio and held his breath.

The guards swore loudly enough for Sam to hear them, then charged across the clearing, chambering their guns as they unknowingly ran past their quarry's hiding place and down the trail toward the cabin. Sam waited until they were out of sight, then pushed himself up. He was forced to duck down again when the cabin door was thrown open and the man from the warehouse – DaCoste? – barreled down the stairs, yelling into a walkie-talkie. He was followed by Ti-Jean, the fury in his expression in complete contrast to the calm manner in which he moved. They both walked right past Sam and headed down the trail, about a minute behind the first two. The moment they disappeared from sight, Sam launched himself across the clearing, ignoring the pain as the sharp gravel bit into his injured feet, and dived into the space between the garage and the Jeep.

He stayed hidden and unmoving except for the heaving of his chest, expecting to hear a door banging, a shout of, 'He's over here' or, worse, the click of a gun behind his head. When there was nothing, he cautiously pushed himself up, scanning the windows and doors, the clearing and the trail. He saw no one.

Hope momentarily dulling the pounding in his head and the pain in his feet, Sam tossed the rifle into the Jeep and crawled up onto the seat after it. He kept himself hunched over and out of sight as he pulled wires free from under the steering column, used the switchblade to strip them, then said a quick prayer as he sparked the ends together. The engine had barely roared to life before Sam was upright, had shoved the Jeep into gear and was slamming his foot onto the accelerator. Yanking the wheel hard left toward the road, he was aware of sudden movement to his right. DaCoste and Ti-Jean had doubled back and were now running into the clearing toward him. Sam's eyes widened when he saw DaCoste raise a gun; Sam straightened the wheels and gunned the engine, gravel spraying out from under the tires as the vehicle launched itself down the drive.

Three shots rang out, two quickly followed by metallic thuds as they slammed into the Jeep. Sam grunted as the third ripped through the canvas of the cab before burying itself into his biceps, but his foot never came off the accelerator – not when the bullet hit, not when the Jeep careened around a sharp bend, not when he smashed through the locked chain-link gates at the entrance to the compound, and not even when he yanked the vehicle hard left onto the cracked pavement of a two-lane back road.

He was free.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"Imbeçile!" Ti-Jean knocked the gun from DaCoste's hand, but not before the latter had squeezed off three shots. "I was clear – his blood must not be spilled." He scowled at the dust cloud kicked up by the speeding Jeep. "Parise was right. I underestimated the boy…." He shot a murderous look at DaCoste. "And overestimated your ability to do your job."

Breathing heavily, DaCoste looked sullen. "We thought he was in the water."

Ti-Jean snorted in disgust. "You heard Tissot – his guard is out cold. If LeBlanc sounded the alarm _after_ the boy jumped in the river, who knocked out LeBlanc?"

"I…." DaCoste decided that question was best left unanswered. He turned toward the garage. "We'll go after him."

Ti-Jean held up an arm blocking his path. "Very lucky for you, there's no need for panic." He smiled. "We know exactly where he's running to, n'est ce-pas?"

_**Continued in Chapter 3…**_

_**A/N: **And the trouble for both brothers is only just starting *evil chuckle* Thanks so much for reading.**  
**_


	3. Chapter 3

**SUMMARY:** _Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean – this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them._

**SPOILERS:** _Set late in Season 7. References to canon incidents through Season 6, and some oblique references to a couple of Season 7 incidents but no plot spoilers for anything in Season 7. This is a casefic which takes place in-between canon hunts._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen once called them, adult situations, and violence._

**WORD COUNT:**_ 30K+_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort/Adventure_

**A/N:**_ I've done research for the medical and Voodoo aspects of this story, but am certainly no expert in either. For the medical info, please forgive any inaccuracies. For the Voodoo, I have done what Supernatural itself does – take factual elements and present them in a fictional way, mixing together lore from New Orleans, Haiti and West Africa._

_Written for JaniceC678 and LittleLady, based on a plot bunny they came up with, and gave me to play with. The full prompt will appear at the end of the story so as not to spoil things. Beta-ed by the always awesome Harrigan. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining goofs are mine and mine alone. Enjoy._

**BLOOD OF THE BAYOU**

**By Scullspeare**

**Chapter Three**

"_How you holding up?"_

"We get Sam back, I'll be fine. But at least now I've got something we can work with." Dean sat on the motel bed and flipped his phone to speaker before jamming his flash drive into the laptop. The computer quickly uploaded the images he'd taken from the gas station security camera footage. "It took three gas stations to find it but I have a dirty black pick-up with a flag bumper sticker, gold star and everything. Got a shot of the driver, too. It's not great, but if you know him you should be able to recognize him."

"_Good."_

"There." Dean hit send. "Pics are on their way to your phone. Anything on Parise?"

"_She ain't been in New York for some time_, _although she was often seen in the company of black mambo when she lived there_. _We're still trying to track where she went_." Jack sounded worried. "_And there's more bad news. Whatever Ti-Jean's got planned, it's going down tomorrow night."_

"Tomorrow?" Dean stared at the phone, his fingers frozen over the keyboard. That gave them less than a day to find Sam.

"_You heard of the Blood Moon_?"

"Yeah, it's the hunter's moon, first full moon of the fall equinox." Dean frowned. "It's big in Native American lore, but what does it mean in Bo?"

"_It's said to be a time when the forces of nature are in perfect alignment. Whatever spells are performed beneath it are amplified_. _If Ti-Jean's conjuring for power, for example_-"

"He gets an atom bomb instead of a firecracker." Dean's heart started racing. "But how the hell does Sam tie into this?"

"_That's what we have to figure out. OK, your photos just landed. The one of the truck – that star on the bumper is the flag of Acadiana, the Cajun flag, and that's bayou mud spattered all over it. Every truck that comes out of the swamp looks like that. As for the driver_…." Jack clicked open the second photo. "I'd say that's _Charlie Maillet, especially since the son of a bitch lives out on the bayou and drives a black Ford F-150. He's a hunter but sketchy on his best days – and he's been known to cozy up to Ti-Jean. Lately, he's been partnered up with a hunter from the Midwest…. Wandell, that's it._"

"Wandell." Bile rose in Dean's throat.

"_I take it you know the name?"_

"Yeah. Long story, but let's just say the bastard has grudge against Sam."

"_So if Wandell met up with Ti-Jean and the two of them got to talking…._"

"The bokor would know everything the hunters' grapevine knows about Sam." Dean's jaw clenched; that was way more than he was comfortable with anyone knowing, let alone a bokor. "Where do I find 'em? And don't give me that wait 'til we're ready bullshit. Hunters I can handle and you said it yourself, we're on a deadline."

Jack exhaled slowly. "_Yeah. Let me put out some feelers. If they're still in town, we'll be able to track 'em down_."

"Good. You can-" Dean's phone beeped, signaling another call. Dean picked it up and frowned at the unfamiliar number. "Got another call. I'll get back to you."

"_Keep me in the loop._"

Dean clicked to the other call. "Yeah?"

A woman's voice came over the line. "_I have a collect call from a Sam Smith. Will you ac-_"

"Put it through." Dean's heart was suddenly punching his ribs. "Sammy?"

"_Yeah, Dean. It's me_."

Dean couldn't get the words out fast enough. "Y'okay? Where the hell are you? You got away, right?"

"_One question at a time, dude." _Sam sounded tired._ "One, I'll live. Two, a truck stop – best guess, it's seventy, eighty miles west of New Orleans. And three, yeah – I stole some wheels, been driving for thirty, forty minutes already just to get out of the swamp."_

Dean scowled. "The swamp?"

"_Yeah. They kept me in some camp out on the bayou. This is the first phone I passed since I got outta there, not to mention the first sign of civilization._"

Dean sank back against the headboard. "Damn, it's good to hear your voice.…" His tone hardened. "It was Wandell's brother, wasn't it – the hunter who took you?"

"_Yeah, but this wasn't his gig. Wandell's dead."_

"What? You killed him?"

"_No._ _He handed me over to a bokor named Ti-Jean. The bokor took him out with some black magic hoodoo. That's what's behind this, Dean. There's some big Bo ceremony going down and-"_

"I know. I-" Dean scowled at a hiss from the other end of the phone. "I thought you said you were OK?"

"_I am_."

"Bull. What'd they do to you?"

"_I…._" Sam bit back a groan. "_I got winged by a bullet getting away. It's no big deal. Once I get it out, I-" _

"Son of a bitch…." Dean launched himself off the bed and grabbed his keys from the dresser. "Tell me where you are – I'm coming to get you."

"_Dean, no. I told you – I'm OK. I've got wheels, I-"_

"Since when does kidnapped and shot equal OK? And what? I'm just supposed to sit here and let you drive yourself home with a bullet in you?"

"_Yes. Look, it'll take twice as long for me to get back if I have to wait for you to pick me up, and we both know I'm safer on the move_. _They're gonna come after me_." Sam sounded equal parts frustrated by and grateful for Dean's overprotective streak. "_But there's a few things you need to know that can't wait. Most important – they're after you, too_."

"Me?" Dean's knuckles whitened around his keys, but he snorted dismissively. "I'll add their names to the list."

"_Quit screwing around._ _The woman from the bar, the one you left with, she's mixed up in this, and pretty high up the food chain_. _I think she's the mambo_. _The blonde who was hitting on me, Carrie, she's also involved – a hounsis, maybe_."

"Yeah. That much I know. I've been talking to Jack Delacroix. We can connect the dots between both women and the bokor, and right now this Ti-Jean in the middle of some Voodoo turf war. Someone's after his job only he doesn't know who. My guess is it's his very own mambo."

That surprised Sam. "_The woman you were with last night_?"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's move past that, shall we? Tomorrow night's the Blood Moon and, according to Jack, any spell you cast under it gets a turbo-boost. Obviously, Ti-Jean's looking for some new powers to tip the odds in his favor, but what we don't know is why they need you to do it."

"_Not me, Dean. Us. I told you, they're coming after you, too._"

Dean shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. I was with Parise. She had me." He rolled his eyes. "In every sense of the word. If they wanted me, why'd she let me go? I'm guessing she just kept me out of the way so they could get to you."

"_No, you're definitely a part of this. One, the mambo – Parise? – told her men to stay away from you until she figured out a way to break the protection of our tattoos and two, if she's the rival, she's not gonna give the bokor all the tools he needs to secure his power. Maybe she's delaying until she can figure out a way to beat him at his own game_."

Dean frowned, subconsciously running his fingers down his sternum. "What was that about our tattoos?"

"_She said she needed time to find a spell to break their protection. Dude, they only protect us from one thing..."_

"Possession. Son of a bitch…." Dean's stomach lurched when he thought back to Parise's fascination with his tattoo. "Demons aren't the only ones who can take over your meatsuit."

"_No, loas can, too._" Sam sounded sick. "_But why us? How does that get this bokor more power?_"

Dean's mind was spinning, trying to figure out just that. "We know Ti-Jean was working with Wandell, and Wandell would be hooked into the hunter grapevine, so he'd know about the demon blood, your history with Lucifer – some of it, anyway. Maybe Ti-Jean thinks you still have Luci on speed dial and the two of them can swap dark secrets. But that doesn't explain why they want me."

"_You've been to Hell,_ y_ou're Michael's vessel-_"

"Michael never rode this train."

"_Wandell wouldn't know that_." Sam hissed again, obviously still in pain. "_And Voodoo_-"

"OK, screw this discussion for now." Dean hated the helpless feeling that came with being eighty miles from his injured brother. "You need to get your ass back here. Once I see for myself just how _OK_ you really are, then we'll figure out our next move."

"_You can't stay there, Dean. You said Parise came by the motel. I got away – if they can't find me, they're gonna focus on you._"

Sam was right. Dean moved over to the window, suspiciously scanning the parking lot. "You on a payphone?"

"_Yeah_."

"Then steal yourself a cell and check in every 15 minutes on the drive back – and I mean _every_ 15 minutes. I'll slip out of here, shake loose any tail, then get us some new digs where we can regroup." He frowned when there was no answer. "Sammy?"

"_You slept with her."_

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You pick _now _to go all judgmental."

"_Dean, we're dealing with black magic. You know as well as I do, the best way to mark someone, to control them, is get hold of hair, skin... bodily fluids. You used protection, right? So-"_

"Dude, stop!" Dean felt like he was going to puke. "You are seriously squicking me out."

Suddenly the roles were reversed and Sam was worrying about Dean. "_Before you take off, take a shower. Beyond the… obvious, she may have touched you with some powder, some oil that-"_

"Yeah, yeah…. I know the drill."

"_Does she have anything else of yours? Something she might have taken, something you left behind that could be used to track you or curse you?"_

"Beyond… you know, I left some clothes there but…." Dean's frown returned as he glanced down at the small carrier bag on the chair by the door. "She brought them back. Why would she give 'em up if she wanted to curse me? Shit…." He grabbed the bag, pulled out his _freshly laundered_ socks and underwear and stuck his hand inside each, expecting to find a gris-gris – the Voodoo equivalent of a hex bag – but there was nothing. "No, they're clean – at least as far as I can tell."

"_Don't take any chances_, _burn 'em_. _Hell, burn everything you were wearing when you were with her, everything she touched."_

"Dude, come on – everything she touched? We had sex."

"_Then get your ass and everything attached to it into the shower, scrub your skin raw. Call Jack again. He'll know the best kind of gris-gris to ward off any hex she tries to throw at you_. _Oh, fuck…."_

Dean scowled at the phone. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"

"_When I came to, my shirt was gone – my blood's on it_."

Which meant they had the means to curse Sam, too. "Oh, fuck is right." The muscle along Dean's jaw twitched. "Before this gig is over, I better be able to kill something or I am gonna lose it." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "OK, get a phone, change up rides, then call me. I'm not going anywhere 'til I know you're traveling with Ma Bell. Then get your oversized self back to town double-time. And don't forget the check-ins."

"_Yes, Dad_."

"Asshat." Dean again scanned the parking lot. "Now go swipe a phone… and keep your eyes peeled."

"_You, too – and take a_ s_hower_."

When Sam hung up, Dean tossed the phone on the bed, headed for the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. The water was still warming up when he stepped under the spray and grabbed the tiny motel soap. "You'd think you would have learned your lesson with Lydia, but no…. _It's just a one night stand, you've got protection, everything's good_," he sing-songed as he began to scrub, his skin quickly turning pink under the assault. "What a crock of shit. Maybe Sammy's onto something with this monk thing."

He shuddered at that thought.

Sammy.

Talking to his brother had eased some of the pressure in his chest that had been building since Sam disappeared, but it wouldn't go away completely until Sam walked through the door and he saw for himself what kind of shape the kid was in. Sam had learned a lot about hunting from Dean and, unfortunately, downplaying injuries was one of them.

Dean ran the soap over his tattoo, subconsciously scrubbing even harder at the thought of Parise touching it, touching him. Possession. So far he'd escaped that particular torture and he had every damn intention of keeping that record intact.

But how would possessing him and Sam boost the bokor's power?

Sam had the Lucifer connection and they'd both been to Hell. Dean froze, arm braced against the shower wall, oblivious to the rapidly cooling water. They'd also both died. Under the letter of Voodoo law, that made them zombies.

Sam had lived without a soul for more than a year, and Dean had been worm food for more than four months. Dean scrubbed the water from his face; Cas had reassembled him and Death had tucked Sam's soul back inside that ridiculous six-pack but, by Voodoo definition, they were still the living dead. Rightful ownership of theirs souls reverted back to the gods, the 'loa,' the moment they were separated from the body.

Souls were power, pure energy. Had the bokor found a way to use that loophole to claim their souls as a weapon in his battle to hold on to power?

"Son of a bitch." Dean slammed his fist into the shower wall, the tile cracking under the assault, the water running down it turning pink as a shard of broken porcelain sliced into his knuckles. Wandell wouldn't know all the details of their multiple deaths and resurrections, but enough were common hunter knowledge for Wandell to be able to share them with the bokor.

Dean shivered, and not just because it suddenly registered that the water was icy cold. He shut off the tap, threw back the curtain and stepped out of the tub. He'd just wrapped one threadbare towel around his hips and was scrubbing his face and hair dry with another when his phone rang. "Sammy? You back on the road?"

"_Sorry, Dean, it's just me." _It was Jack's voice._ "Wait – you heard from Sam?"_

"Yeah, he got away. He's on his way back, but…." Dean threw the wet towel into the tub and scowled down at his bloody knuckles, the urge to punch something back in full force. "The bastards shot him, Jack."

"_What? Is he-"_

"He says he's OK." Dean moved back into the room, pulling fresh clothes from his duffel. "But I won't know what _OK_ means 'til I see him."

"_Where is he?"_

"Out in the bayou west of the city. He's hurting and still needs to find fresh wheels, so I'd say he's at least a couple of hours out." Dean swapped the phone to his other hand as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. "But he saw preparations for Ti-Jean's shindig at the camp where they held him. Once he's back, we give him a map, he'll be able to point it out for us. Oh, and Wandell's dead. Ti-Jean killed him."

"_That fits." _Jack didn't seemed surprised by that last piece of news._ "I checked in with some police sources. A body, or at least most of it, showed up in a fisherman's net this morning out in that same part of the state. Got me a look at the police photos. It was a little hard to tell, but my money says it's Wandell."_

Dean had no sympathy to waste on the man who'd kidnapped Sam and handed him over to a Bo sorcerer. "The missing pieces, did the bokor do that?"

"_Nah, more like gators after they tossed him in the water. So what's the plan now?"_

Dean trusted Jack, but he didn't want to share his theory on Ti-Jean being after their souls just yet; he'd bounce it off Sam first. "Once I know Sam's got a phone and a fresh ride, I'm heading out to find us some new digs, ones Parise doesn't know about."

"_I know a place, well off the beaten path. You leave it with me, I'll set it up. Just get yourself the hell out of there and I'll text you a rendezvous point."_

"Sounds good." Dean glanced down at the bag Parise had returned. "And while you're at it, I need a few things you can't get at the Gas 'n' Sip."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam slipped through the unlocked back door of the truck stop. It led into a short hallway with restrooms on one side and a staff locker room on the other. Zydeco music and the usual restaurant noises filtered in from the front of the building but, for the moment, the hallway itself was deserted.

He ducked into the men's room, locked the door and fell back against it, catching his breath. A quick glance at the cracked mirror above the sink confirmed what he already knew; he was a mess. Dirt mixed with sweat was smeared across day-old stubble, there was dried blood on his forehead and a black eye from where he'd smacked his head on the fire alarm back at the motel. His hair? Well, Dean would have a field day when he saw it. Add to that the shirt that didn't fasten, the blood-soaked sleeve from the bullet wound, and bloody, filthy bare feet and anyone who saw him would be calling the cops before he had a chance to say, 'Wait-'

He hobbled to the sink, turned on the tap and ignored the burn in his injured arm as he scrubbed away dirt, blood and sweat from his face. He raked wet hands through his hair, taming it as best he could, then stuck his mouth under the faucet and drank greedily. Screw the bitter, metallic taste; it was the best damn water he'd ever had.

Sam then turned his attention to his arm and his feet. He left the tap running as he pulled off his shirt, wincing as fabric stuck in dried blood pulled at the skin around the bullet wound. He almost passed out poking at the injury, white knuckling the edge of the sink until the pain-fueled dizziness passed, and nearly putting his teeth through his bottom lip biting back a yell. There was no exit wound but he couldn't see the bullet, the swelling skin around the entry point swallowing it whole. Moving his arm hurt like hell, but he could move it, meaning bone damage was unlikely. His immediate dilemma was whether to leave the bullet in place and risk infection, or try to pull it out and risk bleeding out. He chose the former; infection was the slower of the two enemies. He would be back in the city before it fully took hold, and then Dean would take care of it, take care of him. If he bled out, he'd die in a ditch before he even got close to the city.

He used soap from the wall dispenser to scrub his arm and his battered feet, again almost biting through his lip as he did so. As far as first aid was concerned, it was a long way from ideal but, hey, you worked with what you had.

Sam dried his feet, then put his shirt back on, rolling up the sleeves in an attempt to hide both the bullet wound and the blood stain on the fabric. While drying his hands, he glanced again in the mirror. Who the hell was he trying to kid? He'd dropped a notch on the feeling-like-crap scale but anyone who caught sight of him would still be calling 9-1-1 – for the paramedics if he was lucky, the cops if he wasn't.

Decision made to stay out of sight, his focus shifted to finding a phone. Since picking the pocket of a customer was out, his next best option was the staff locker room across the hall. Sam leaned against the door and listened; assured the hallway was still empty, he quickly moved from the bathroom to the locker room, and slipped inside. Luck was still with him – the room was empty.

It was small, holding only three lockers, each of which was just latched shut. Sam riffled through the contents; all three were in use by female employees so none offered him a change of clothes, but he did find a fully-charged phone. Before leaving he also grabbed a first-aid kit from the wall beside the door, and a hacksaw from a toolbox pushed under a utility sink.

Back outside in the cloying heat, he crossed the parking lot and wasted no time unscrewing the blade from the saw and using it to jimmy open the door to a dark blue SUV he'd picked out earlier. For the second time that day, he hot-wired an engine and spun the tires in loose gravel as he peeled out of the lot and back onto the road toward New Orleans. Wincing as his bare foot pressed down on the accelerator, he grabbed the stolen phone and dialed Dean's number.

"_Sammy?"_

Sam fought to modulate his voice, convince Dean there was nothing to worry about. "Yeah, it's me. I'm on the road."

"_You sound like crap."_

Sam snorted; so much for that plan. "I'm… having a bad day."

"_Understatement_. _How's the not-so-bad bullet in your arm_?"

Like a red-hot poker through his biceps. "It's fine."

"_Bull." _Dean's voice softened. "Seriously, y_ou gonna make it in one piece? I don't want your next call telling me you're neck-deep in swamp 'cause you couldn't see straight."_

Sometimes it scared him how clearly Dean could read him. Sam had drifted into the oncoming lane, the SUV jerking sideways as he overcorrected. "Dude, relax. M'okay."

"_Man, you suck at lying."_

That made Sam smile. "I'm a damn good liar – at least when anyone but you is asking the questions."

It was Dean's turn to snort._ "You got a phone, I see."_

"Yeah. Swiped it from the staff locker room at the truck stop. I doubt its owner will notice it's gone until their shift's over."

"_Any chance of a tail?_"

Sam instinctively checked the rearview mirror. "No. I hid the Jeep, got new wheels, so they won't know what to look for. And this ride belongs to a long-haul trucker. Overheard him say he'd be gone two days just before he jumped into a rig with his partner, so I don't have to worry about cops either. Only obstacle left is 74 miles of Louisiana back roads."

"_You did good, young Jedi. I taught you well."_

"Oh, bite me." Sam wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder as he fumbled with the first-aid kit, popped open a bottle of Tylenol and dry swallowed three pills.

"_Look_, _I'm not kidding about the check-ins. Every 15 minutes, got it?"_

"Yes, sir." Sam grimaced as his stomach rumbled_. "_And, Dean, get some food. I'm frigging starving."

"_Now I'm really worried - you're never hungry. And_, d_ude, you were just in a freaking truck stop. Why didn't you swipe a burger when you swiped the phone?"_

"Because I could pass for Freddy Krueger's second cousin. I've got feet that look like hamburger, a shirt that won't fasten with dried blood all over it, and it's so damn hot, I reek like a month-old gym bag. If anyone saw me, the only question is whether they'd call the cops or the white coats_."_

"_When it comes to convincing me you're OK – Newsflash! You suck at that, too." _Dean exhaled worriedly and Sam was pretty sure he was pacing_. "Look, just… put your foot down and get back to town ASAP. I got you covered on grub and good drugs, and I'll give you a heads up on the new digs as soon I get there."_

"Thanks, man." Sam focused on the road ahead and nothing more. "Talk to you in fifteen."

**xxxXXXxxx**

Dean peered around the dumpster, scanning the alley in front of him for any suspicious movement. There was none. Jack had picked the meeting place and, as promised, it was deserted.

But the hunter was ten minutes late and that was quickly putting Dean on edge. At least Sam had checked in on schedule, but the trip was taking longer than it should and his brother sounded worse each time Dean talked to him. If he didn't think it would be more distraction than help, he would have kept Sam on the phone until he pulled up in front of him and he knew for a fact he was safe.

Dean tensed when a beat-up brown pick-up pulled into the alley, but relaxed when he caught sight of the man behind the wheel: it was Jack.

The hunter was about the same size and age as Dad, his long, graying black hair pulled back into a curly ponytail. He wore a small gold hoop in his left ear, a compliment to the gold filling in his left incisor that had made five-year-old Sam ask him if he was a pirate.

"Over here." Dean stepped out of the shadow of the dumpster as Jack climbed out of the truck.

Jack met him with a warm hug. "Good to see you, son. Just wish it was under better circumstances. Still, it's good to know Sam gave those bastards the slip. How's he holding up?"

"He's been better." Dean motioned to Jack's ponytail. "Still rockin' the skullet, I see."

"Beck moi tchew," Jack muttered, slapping Dean good-naturedly on the shoulder before reaching back into the cab of his truck and pulling out a large, cardboard cup of coffee.

"I remember what that means." Dean grinned. "And if I'm taking a bite out of anyone's ass, it sure as hell won't be yours."

"And for that I'm grateful. Here." Jack handed Dean the coffee. "Black and rocket fuel strong, if I remember right."

"You do." Dean took a drink and coughed. "Although the bourbon chaser's new."

"New Orleans special. I figured you could use it. Sorry I'm late but some of the things you asked for were a little tougher to track down than I thought."

Dean frowned. "But you found 'em?"

Jack nodded. "Every item on the list." He motioned with his head for Dean to follow him to the rear of the truck. "You get away without being seen?"

"Went to the motel office and slipped out the back way." Dean checked his watch. "That was about an hour ago. If I had eyes on me, they've figured out by now I've given 'em the slip, but I wasn't followed."

"Good." Jack lowered the tailgate and pulled a map from his pocket. "Last time Sam checked in, you get a location on the truck stop like I asked?"

Dean nodded as he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. "A place called the Cajun Kitchen on U.S. 90. Signs say the nearest town is Chauvin."

Jack spread the map out on the tailgate, and marked an 'X' over the town's name. "And he drove for about thirty minutes after escaping the camp before he hit the diner?" When Dean nodded again, Jack stared at the map for a moment and then drew a circle around the X. "Anywhere you can get to from that truck stop within thirty minutes falls inside this circle, meaning so does Ti-Jean's camp. I'll do some digging to figure out where that bastard's holed up just in case Sam's in no shape to retrace his steps."

Jack pulled a key from his pocket and offered it to Dean. "Booked you into a place on Barracks Street, The Shelby Inn. Sounds fancy – it ain't. Take my truck, I'll meet up with you soon as I round up some back up."

"Thanks." Dean took the key but stared at it uncertainly.

Jack raised an eyebrow at Dean's expression. "What? After twenty-some years, now you don't trust me?"

"It's not that." Dean locked a steely gaze on Jack. "Besides, you know damn well if you double-crossed me, the gator that ate Wandell would be getting a second helping of hunter tonight."

Jack's laugh was deep and genuine. "Damn, boy, you are Johnny Winchester's son, through and through." His grin faded. "So, what is it?"

Dean shook his head. "Sam sounds rough. He's gonna want to be part of this fight, but my gut's telling me he's not up to it. Can't leave him behind, though – not with the bokor and his hounds sniffing after us."

Jack gestured to cab of the truck. "Guns, ammo and a fully-stocked first-aid kit are all in the duffel on the shotgun seat. Food and bottled water in the cooler on the floor. If your brother's anything like you, stitch him up and get some food in him and he'll be spoiling for a fight. If he's not, dope him up and call me. One of my crew, his wife's a retired nurse. What she lacks in charm, she makes up for in skill – and she's pretty damn good with a gun. If need be, she'll watch over Sam."

Dean nodded slowly. Sam wouldn't like it, but he could handle his brother being pissed if it kept him in one piece. "Any update on Parise?"

Jack nodded as he slammed shut the tailgate. "She's spent most of the past five years out of the country, supposedly teaching underprivileged kids in the Dominican Republic. Now, the last time I checked an atlas, the D.R. shared an island with-"

"Haiti." Dean's mouth went dry. "The motherland of dark Voodoo. She was studying to be a mambo?"

Jack nodded. "It's still not clear which side she's on, but if she's after Ti-Jean's job, I'd say she's got the resume to do it."

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Can I pick'em, or what?"

Jack shot him a sympathetic smile. "If she looks anything like her mama, it would take a man of stone not to fall for that djablesse."

"Djablesse?"

"Female devil." Jack winked at Dean as he unzipped the duffel. "If I was just twenty years younger-"

"You'd still be in line behind me." Dean cleared his throat. "Now where's the stuff?"

"Everything's in the duffel – except these." Jack handed Dean two small gris-gris bags. "Had a friend make'em up – one each. Keep'em on you, they should hide you from Parise and Ti-Jean."

"Should?" Dean slipped the gris-gris bags into his pocket.

Jack shrugged. "Ain't no guarantees with Voodoo."

"Awesome." Dean slid behind the wheel of the truck and set his coffee in the cup holder. "What about the Jimson Weed?"

Jack reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a black liquid. "Mixed with sulfur and honey, ready to drink. Bottle was even rubbed against a black cat, just like the spell book says."

"Yum." Dean pulled out the stopper and raised the bottle in a mock toast. "L'chaim." He tossed it back in one gulp, and almost threw it right back up, gagging until his eyes watered. "Shit…. That tastes like shit."

Jack's grin was back. "Why'd you think I brought you the coffee? Shit tastes like foie gras next to that stuff. Here, there's one for your brother, too. You'll get the pleasure of watching his face when he drinks it." Jack handed over the second bottle, then clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Directions are in your phone, now get. Go take care of your brother."

"Damn, you got bossy in your old age." Dean was still gagging as he slipped Sam's bottle of Jimson Weed into a side pocket of the duffel. He pulled the door closed, then turned back to Jack as he turned the key in the ignition. "Dude, I'm itching for a fight. Make damn sure you get me a good one."

"Careful what you wish for." Jack offered a two-fingered salute as Dean drove away.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Blood loss, dehydration and building infection were all taking a toll, making Sam feel sick, dizzy and tired. He was having trouble focusing on the directions Dean had given him, both verbally and via text, and on the street signs as he drove through the city toward the Shelley Inn on Bokor Street.

Sam frowned. That wasn't right. He shook his head, then squeezed his eyes closed and opened them wide, before glancing down at the phone on the seat beside him: The Shelby Inn on Barracks Street. That was it.

The phone's GPS said Barracks Street was only a block away now; he just had to hang on until then, but it was a fight to keep the car straight. Sam snorted; after escaping homicidal hunters, a bokor and alligators, and surviving a two-hour drive with a bullet in his arm, it would be just his luck to be pulled over for impaired driving less than a block away from being reunited with his brother.

Sam allowed himself a small smile when he saw the sign for Barracks Street, and turned left, the truck swerving briefly into the oncoming lane before he quickly corrected. _Don't hit the parked cars, don't hit the parked cars_ became his mantra as he drove along the narrow street. There was no center line to guide him but fortunately, no oncoming traffic, either.

He was driving one-handed now, his right arm refusing to co-operate for the past thirty minutes or so, the skin around the bullet wound tight and red hot to the touch. At some point on the drive he'd realized there was bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the first aid kit, twisted off the cap with his teeth and poured the contents directly onto the wound. That had almost put him in the swamp on the spot, and forced him to slam on the brakes, pull over and throw open the door while he puked up water and bile. He took advantage of the forced break to tie a bandage around his arm, the pressure helping numb the pain – at least for a brief period of time.

Each mile he drove seemed to take more and more out of him, making it harder to keep the car on the road. The regular check-ins with Dean had made the difference, his brother both teasing and comforting but helping him focus, making it possible to keep going. Now, he was almost there. Just a little farther. Just to the end of the street.

If they were forced to steal a vehicle, S.O.P. was to park it well away from their motel, giving police no way to connect the theft to them. Here, Sam didn't have that luxury. Stumbling through the streets, covered in blood, he was much more likely to draw unwanted attention than the stolen car he was in.

When he saw the sign for the Shelby Inn, he pulled into the parking lot, fumbled left-handed to shove the gearshift into park, and collapsed back onto the seat in relief when he did. His vision blurred as he scanned the row of doors; what the hell number was he looking for?

Six, that was it. Room 6 – the one on the end.

There was a battered brown truck parked in front of the room. In their last phone check-in, Dean had told him that he had Jack's truck, that he was five minutes away from the motel and that he'd park it right in front of the room as soon as he got there. Good, Dean had made it, too; his brother was safely behind the battered green door of Room 6.

"Now get your sorry ass off this seat and into the room," Sam muttered to himself, lifting his injured arm into his lap as he reached over to turn off the engine. Dean would dig out the bullet, sew him up, dope him up and chew him out for getting shot in the first place, just not necessarily in that order.

Sam opened the door, then mentally kicked himself. "Phone, asshat. Don't forget the phone." With one gimp hand, it wasn't easy to turn over the phone and pull out the chip but eventually he did it. He set the chip on the dashboard and smashed it with the metal first aid box. No one was tracing that phone. Then he unfolded himself from the SUV.

After a quick glance across the parking lot confirmed it was deserted, Sam stumbled over to Room 6, the motel twisting and warping in front of him like something out of Alice in Wonderland, while the hot asphalt burned his torn feet. He fell against the door, rather than standing in front of it, and pounded on the peeling paint with his fist. "Dean!" His voice cracked. "Open up. It's me."

Sam was fading fast; he had no idea if seconds or minutes passed before the door opened but suddenly his brother was standing right in front of him. He managed a smile even as his eyes slid closed. "Dude, I'd hug you, but if I let go of this doorframe, I'm pretty sure I'll fall down."

He opened his eyes when Dean said nothing, his smile fading as he took in the completely blank look on Dean's face. But before he could question it, Dean grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him into the room and threw a punch, his fist connecting solidly with Sam's jaw. Weak and off-balance, Sam went down hard. He didn't get back up.

Parise appeared suddenly at Dean's side, DaCoste and Maillet standing just behind her. "Good work, Dean." The mambo's attention shifted to the unconscious Sam, a cold smile spreading across her face as she hooked her arm through Dean's. "Sorry, Sammy. We got to him first."

_**Continued in Chapter 4**…_

**A/N:** _But at least the boys are back together. *ducks behind the couch* Thanks for reading. Cheers._


	4. Chapter 4

**SUMMARY:** _Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean – this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them._

**SPOILERS:** _Set late in Season 7. References to canon incidents through Season 6, and some oblique references to a couple of Season 7 incidents but no plot spoilers for anything in Season 7. This is a casefic which takes place in-between canon hunts._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen once called them, adult situations, and violence._

**WORD COUNT:**_ 30K+_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort/Adventure_

**A/N:**_ Thank you all for the amazing support for this story; I've been blown away!  
_

_I've done research for the medical and Voodoo aspects of this story, but am certainly no expert in either. For the medical info, please forgive any inaccuracies. For the Voodoo, I have done what Supernatural itself does – take factual elements and present them in a fictional way, mixing together lore from New Orleans, Haiti and West Africa._

_Written for JaniceC678 and LittleLady, based on a plot bunny they came up with, and gave me to play with. The full prompt will appear at the end of the story so as not to spoil things. Beta-ed by the always awesome Harrigan. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining goofs are mine and mine alone. Enjoy._

**BLOOD OF THE BAYOU**

**By Scullspeare**

**Chapter Four**

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Dean couldn't move – not of his own volition. He was conscious, aware, but his movements, his actions were the mambo's to control, not his. Whatever powder that bitch had blown in his face, whatever spell she'd slapped on him, had made him a passenger in his own meatsuit, his body a puppet.

Parise had been lying in wait at the motel, hidden from him by some magic. He'd just turned the key in the lock when he sensed her….

_Dean snapped around, instinctively reaching behind his back for his gun, but the dust was in his face before he'd fully turned. The mambo's goons – two men, one on either side of him – had his arms pinned and were shoving him inside the room before he could even lift his shirt. _

_Parise followed them in, smiling as she closed the door behind her. "Your hunter's instincts are sharp, mon cher. That spell should have made us completely invisible to you until you breathed in the dust, but you knew didn't you? Could sense we were here? Impressive." Her smile darkened. "But I would expect no less from a man who has walked Heaven and Hell – and escaped both."_

_OK, Wandell had definitely been shooting his mouth off, but Dean could only spit curses at Parise inside his head; the dust had also stolen his ability to speak. But how? He'd drunk the Jimson Weed potion that was supposed to protect him from this kind of hoodoo crap; her spell shouldn't have worked._

'_Ain't no guarantees in Voodoo.' Jack's voice sounded clearly in his head. Well, fuck._

_Parise moved in front of him, motioning for her men to let Dean go and step back. Somehow being free of their hold made things worse – there was nothing physically restraining him, but he was still frozen in place, at her mercy._

"_You covered your tracks well." The mambo ran her hands down Dean's shirt and over his jeans, stopping over the pocket that held the gris-gris bags and pulling them out. She shook her head. "And this explains why these two couillons could not see you until I made it possible. Whoever made these gris-gris is a worthy adversary." She handed the bags to the younger of the two men. "Burn them."_

_Parise turned back to Dean. "Perhaps you're thinking you were betrayed?" She shook her head. "Don't underestimate my gift. I saw you in this place before you even left my bed. Finding you here was always meant to be. The glamour of the gris-gris was just… an inconvenience."_

_The mambo frowned, studying him intently. "But you are hard to read, cher. Some things are so clear, but others…. It's like I open one door only to be faced with another."_

_That was good, right? Maybe on some level the Jimson Weed was working. He had no free will to move or to speak, but his mind was clear and Parise didn't seem able to read his thoughts. _

"_No matter. Erzulie will unlock them. Those things you hide from me, you will not be able to hide from her." Parise slid her hand behind his neck, pulled him to her and kissed him._

_In stark contrast to the night before, Dean's skin crawled. There was a whole lot to be said for free will. And who the hell was Erzulie?_

"_If only you'd stayed with me…. Just think how much more pleasant these hours until the Blood Moon could have been." Parise ran her fingers down Dean's face, then traced the outline of his lips, her expression coy. "Perhaps Erzulie would have joined us… she loves beautiful things."_

_That was it; Erzulie was the goddess of beauty and sensuality – kind of Voodoo's answer to Aphrodite. But Voodoo spirits didn't fall into the traditional definitions of good and bad; each embraced both dark and light qualities, so Erzulie was also the loa of jealousy and vengeance. If Parise was out to take down Ti-Jean, Dean could see why she'd want the goddess of vengeance on her side._

"_But there's the matter of this." Parise pulled down the neck of Dean's T-shirt to stare at his tattoo. "I've spent almost every hour since you left working to find a way to pick this lock." Her smile faded. "It will open, and the loa will claim you. That much I've seen. After that… the future grows darker." She bit her lip. "Sometimes the loa like to hide things, even from me."_

_For a moment, she seemed vulnerable, scared… but the confident mask slipped quickly back into place._

_Parise brushed her knuckles along Dean's jaw. "And then there's Sam." She tut-tutted, shaking her head. "Kidnapped, drugged, tied up, shot at…. Does he give up? No." She cupped Dean's face in her hand. "But a simple bokor's prison is no match for a man who escaped Lucifer's cage, n'est-ce pas?"_

_Dean's heart rate picked up noticeably._

"_I warned Ti-Jean... but he's been in power too long. It has made him arrogant… careless – and that makes him vulnerable."_

_If Dean needed confirmation that Parise was out to take down the bokor – there it was._

"_But first, your brother." The mambo's expression hardened as she stared up at Dean. "Soon, he'll be here and we must be ready."_

_Son of a bitch…. Dean's gut twisted. How the hell could he warn Sam to stay away?_

_Parise opened a small cloth pouch. From it, she pulled a handful of grayish powder. "I have his blood so just a little of this in his face will turn him into a puppet like you." She tipped the powder back into the bag and dusted off her hands. "But you're a clever man, Dean. I need to know you're not practicing some glamour of your own." _

_Shit. Could she sense he was not completely under the dust's control?_

_The mambo grasped his chin, turned his head, then leaned in, her lips inches from his ear. Her whispers were at first unrecognizable – a Voodoo spell spoken in French – but when her words turned back to English, her directive was clear. "When Sam comes to the door, hit him. Knock him out."_

_Fuck that._

_But when Sam had shown up, bloody and barely standing, that's exactly what he'd done. He'd opened the door and there was his brother, about two seconds from face-planting on the sidewalk. Even as Dean was silently screaming at Sam to run, to get as far away from this crazy bitch as he could, he'd grabbed his brother by the shirt, hauled him into the room, and decked him. He'd_ _fought to control the strike even as he felt himself winding up for the punch, but Sam had gone down hard, and stayed down._

And now, Dean stood helpless and unmoving over Sam's unconscious body. He wanted to check on him, wanted to throw him over his shoulder, haul him out of the room and as far away from Parise and Ti-Jean as he could get; let their little power struggle play out with him and Sam in another state. But he could only stand there while her two flunkies moved Jack's truck and backed a van right up to the door, while Parise bent down and ran her hands over Sam, a scowl darkening her face when she unwrapped the bloody bandage on his brother's arm and saw the bullet wound. He could do nothing to stop the two men when, once sure there were no witnesses, they'd picked up Sam and loaded him into the van. Then, like a dog on a leash, Dean could only follow Parise obediently, climb into the van and sit on the floor, across from his brother.

Sam was a mess. His right arm was covered in blood, as was the sleeve of his shirt. The soles of his bare feet were cut, bruised and bloody and he had the beginnings of a black eye. He was pale but his cheeks were flushed, his body obviously battling infection.

As soon as the van doors were closed, Parise pulled out a knife to slice open Sam's shirtsleeve. She used bottled water to clean away the dried blood from the bullet wound, then mixed together some kind of poultice from ingredients in a metal box that didn't look like any first-aid kit Dean had ever seen. She rebandaged Sam's arm, lifted his head to force some kind of liquid down his throat, then made two angry phone calls, speaking in French both times, before retaking her place in the shotgun seat.

They were on the road more than two hours before the driver pulled to a stop and turned off the engine. Sam still showed no signs of coming to, even as the two men hauled him out of the van and carried him from the cabin they'd parked in front of, down a trail through the trees to a rundown shack by the river. Dean again followed Parise, fighting his hoodoo shackles with each step, but her spell showed no signs of weakening.

As the trees gave way to the slow-moving river, Dean got his first glimpse of the old shack turned peristyle that Sam had described.

The door to the shack was opened by the blonde woman from the bar – Carrie, that's what Sam had called her – and his brother was carried inside. Dean scanned the room as he stepped through the doorway; there was a tall post in the center that climbed through the rafters to the roof peak and a chest-height altar against the back wall, its surface covered in flickering candles, amulets, bells, drums, clay pots and other items sacred to Voodoo. A smaller yet similar altar was set up in the corner to his right. Bo symbols covered the lower half of each wall and an elaborate artwork, which resembled a carpet, decorated the dirt floor around the perimeter of the room.

Dean could only watch as Sam was laid down on a large white sheet on the floor in front of the altar. Candles at the four corners of the sheet stood in glass holders, each adorned with a different Bo spirit, the images seeming to laugh and scowl as the light inside flickered. A small wooden crate on one side of the sheet held a stainless steel tray covered in basic medical implements, another on the opposite side held jars and bottles filled with god knows what.

The men then left, closing the door after them. Dean stood in the shadows, helpless to stop the women as they stripped off Sam's clothes, but silently spitting every curse word he knew. He relaxed only a little when he realized they were bathing him, cleaning the blood and dirt from his injured feet and from the bullet wound in his arm before redressing him in a pair of simple white linen pants. He still wanted to launch himself across the room, pull Parise and Carrie off Sam and, women or not, smash their faces together.

Parise glanced back at him, her puzzled expression turning into a smile. "Such anger, mon cher. We're taking good care of your brother. If he woke now, he would be in great pain. Surely you don't wish that on him?"

_No, but I sure as hell wish it on you_. Internally, he scowled. Had she sensed his anger – or was it simple, common sense telling her that, freed of the Voodoo hex, he'd cheerfully rip her head off for what they'd done to Sam? He watched Carrie continue to treat Sam's feet, pulling pieces of rock, dirt and other debris from the shredded skin of his soles before slathering them with salve. As she began bandaging them, Dean's attention jumped back to Parise who'd picked up a knife that better resembled a scalpel.

The mambo's eyes narrowed as she turned towards Dean. "Taking care of Sam has always been your job, n'est-ce pas? Fine… come." She motioned with her hand for him to come over. "You shall do just that."

Dean crossed the peristyle, for the first time not fighting her orders, and dropped to his knees beside Sam.

Carrie moved to his side, took his hands and washed them before Parise pressed the knife into his palm. "We both know that the bullet needs to come out. The loa tell me you've done this before so, go ahead – do what you must to fix your brother."

Yeah, he'd performed meatball surgery on Sam more times than he cared to remember but never when someone else had a hand up his back. Dean stared at the knife, praying for the free will to slash his arm sideways and hold it to Parise's throat, but a quick glance at Sam told him payback had to wait. His brother's breathing hitched with pain, and as Dean closed his hand around Sam's arm to turn it, get a better look at the wound, the skin was tight and fiery hot.

There was no exit wound; the bullet was still in Sam's arm, the swollen skin closing around it. Removing it meant cutting into the wound, risking further spread of infection. And if the bullet had nicked a vein or an artery, which he wouldn't know until he moved it, Sam could bleed out in no time. _Damn it, a doc should be doing this, not me, and in a fucking hospital not a god damn fishing shack dressed up as a church_.

Parise seemed to sense his hesitation. "Do what you must, mon cher. The loa will guide you. Now is not his time to leave us."

_Screw the loa. _Dean made a small cut into the wound._ If Sammy dies, you will be right behind him, bitch_. _Puppet or not, I will find a way._ He took the pair of oversized tweezers Carrie handed him, gently pulling open the incision until he could see the bullet, trying but failing to block out Sam's pained groans as he did. He used a second pair of tweezers to not-so-gently grab the bullet; it fought him but on his third try, it came out cleanly. Sam flinched noticeably before settling back into still unconsciousness.

Dean's focus was on the wound; it quickly filled with blood but there was no spurting, no gushing…._ I think those Popeye arms may have saved you, Sammy. Looks like the bullet took a bite out of the muscle but missed the plumbing._

Carrie used a wad of gauze to soak up the blood while Parise flushed the open wound; the two women repeated the process several times. Then, after Carrie patted it dry, the mambo opened a silver filigree jar, scooped out the salve inside and packed it into the wound.

Carrie reached for suture thread and a needle but Parise shook her head. "Give the herbs time to draw out the infection. Dean can sew him up in the morning when it's under control and the fever has broken."

Parise handed Dean a rolled bandage. After Carrie pressed a large gauze pad over the wound, Dean quickly wrapped Sam's arm, fastening the bandage with clips the mambo provided.

While he worked, he felt perversely normal, instinct and experience – not Parise – guiding his actions, his ability to take care of his brother. But now he was done, the mambo had her hands on the controls again. Dean remained at Sam's side, unmoving, while the women coaxed Sam half-awake to dose him with some other liquid, then cleaned up the first aid supplies. Dean's focus stayed on his brother; some of the tension was gone from Sam's face and his breathing had settled into a normal rhythm, both good signs.

Carrie returned and knelt opposite Dean. She placed a folded blanket under Sam's head before dipping a cloth into a bowl of water, wringing it out and then wiping down Sam's face and chest to help bring down his temperature. Once that task was completed, she took more soaked cloths and wrapped them around Sam's neck and forearms. Dean hated to admit it, but she was doing everything he would do for Sam if given back his free will.

"That's good, Caroline!" Parise's voice was sharp. "Now leave us."

"Oui, Maman." Carrie quickly gathered up the supplies and pushed herself up, anger flashing across her face as she did. Behind Dean, he heard the door open and close.

That was interesting. Dean's fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening. Carrie obviously answered to Parise, but given the look he'd just seen, she wasn't about to nominate her for Boss of the Year any time soon. Wait. His gaze fell to his fists. Parise hadn't told him he could move them, hadn't given permission; slowly, and not without effort, he opened his hands. The spell was wearing off – or the Jimson Weed kicking it up a notch; either way he was getting control back.

He almost allowed himself a smile but Parise was suddenly beside him, hooking her arm through his. "Come, mon cher. Your brother is resting, now we'll take care of you."

Dean rose as ordered, not yet able to fight her control.

"Take off your shirts."

What the hell? Dean balked instinctively but Parise had her back to him; by the time she turned, he was obediently peeling off his plaid shirt and grabbing the collar of his T-shirt to pull it over his head.

"Your brother will recover." Parise wrung out a cloth in a bowl much like the one Carrie had used for Sam, then wiped the blood – Sam's blood – from Dean's hands. She glanced up at him as she worked. "Healing is at the very heart of Vodoun. Long before there were doctors, the mambo could cure illness, heal injury of all kinds. The salve that will help defeat the infection in Sam has been used for centuries, and will still stand up to any drug modern medicine can offer. Impressive, no?" She dropped the soiled cloth on the floor, soaked a fresh one in the bowl of water, then worked the cloth in gentle circles up Dean's arms and across his chest. "Of course, medicine is just a small part of what we do – but you know that… know there's a greater purpose for us bringing you here."

She was watching him carefully. Did she suspect her spell was wearing off – or was she just inspecting him like a prize bull? Dean channeled his thoughts to some of the bloodiest hunts he'd taken part in, to his time in Hell, filling his head with some of the most vile images from his memory, but Parise showed no reaction. Good… that was good.

Parise again rinsed out the cloth, wiped it over his face, then over his neck and shoulders, massaging tense muscles as she did. In the sticky heat of the bayou, the cool cloth and her hands felt good – damn good – and under different circumstances he could really get into this kind of foreplay. But not now, not with her. What a difference a damn day made.

The mambo paused and ran her hand down Dean's cheek. "Be grateful Erzulie will fight for you. The alternative is not so pleasant. And while you may not like the journey, I think you will like where it leads."

What the hell did that doubletalk mean?

Parise stepped behind him. As she moved the cloth in circle after circle over his back, he realized she was chanting softly under her breath; it was a spell of some sort, that was obvious; but the words were in French so he had no clue what they meant. What the hell was she doing to him this time?

In front of him again, she put down the cloth, reached for the waistband of his jeans, undid the button and unzipped his fly. He fought not to react, to stay relaxed, hoping she wouldn't pick up on his tension at her touch.

Parise smiled. "Fear not, cher. As much as I would enjoy an encore of last night, anyone who comes into my bed does so willingly." She kissed him lightly, her lips barely brushing his, then crossed to a basket sitting next to the medical supplies they'd used on Sam. From it she pulled out a pair of white pants identical to those they'd dressed Sam in, and pressed them into Dean's hands. "Take off your jeans and boots and put these on. Erzulie demands you wear white to the ceremony."

Awesome – pyjamas. Dean kicked off his boots, slipped off his jeans and pulled on the loose-fitting pants, studying the peristyle as he did. If Parise served Erzulie, the small altar in the corner was in tribute to her. Between the bottles and bowls which covered the surface were mirrors, perfumes, ropes of pearls – all pretty items favored by the goddess. That meant the big altar must be dedicated to Ti-Jean's patron loa. Dean scanned the items which covered the surface but from his vantage point, he couldn't tell which of the Bo gods they honored. His gaze returned to Parise as she moved to the small altar and, with her back to him, mixed together herbs, powders and oils in a small stone mortar and pestle.

Dean checked on Sam; he seemed less restless, less feverish than he had in the van. He also seemed too damn vulnerable for someone his size. As the two of them moved from town to town, bar to bar, invariably there'd be some jackass who needed to prove himself by picking on one or both of them to taunts of _pretty boy_ or _sweetheart_. Dean always got a perverse thrill when the would-be bullies tripped over their own feet backing down when Sam unfolded himself from his chair and revealed his full height. His little brother could be a tough son of a bitch when he wanted to, and in a fight there was no one else he'd rather have in his corner. But when Sam was sick or hurt, Dean didn't see the Sasquatch he'd become, the hunter who'd survived Hell; he saw the five-year-old who always turned to Dean like he could fix anything.

Damn, what wouldn't he give to fix _this_ – to snap Parise like a twig, grab Sam and jump in the car, not stopping until they ran out of road. He flexed his hands; moving was getting easier, although he doubted he could choke the life out the mambo just yet. Soon, though; with each minute that passed, more and more control was again his own.

A flash of movement pulled his attention to the window. There was no one there but, for the briefest of moments, he would have sworn he'd seen Carrie spying on Parise. But if the mambo was aware she was being spied upon, she gave no sign.

Parise scooped up the mixture from the stone bowl, placed it on a large, brown leaf and then rolled the leaf so it resembled a cigar. Then, after cutting off the end, she lit it using a long match, fanning it slowly with her hand until it glowed red and a sweet-smelling smoke curled into the air.

Turning away from the altar, she moved to Sam's side, muttering an incantation as she wafted the smoke over him. When the spell was done, she knelt down and pressed the burning end of the cigar into the center of Sam's tattoo.

_Son of a bitch_. Dean lurched forward instinctively as Sam groaned in pain, but froze when Parise's attention jumped to him.

"Don't fret, mon cher. Momentary pain is often necessary for the greater good." Parise smudged the ash across Sam's tattoo, then stood up and moved in front of Dean. There she began the same incantation.

Fuck. He knew what that meant, and couldn't quite stifle a grunt of pain as she pushed the lit end of the cigar into his skin.

The mambo used her finger to smudge the ash, then placed her hand flat on Dean's chest, next to the tattoo, over his heart. "Your loa, your brother's…. They have each seen the halls of Heaven, the deepest circles of Hell. They have knowledge… access that none other who still walk this world possess. And to have the chance to take them under the Blood Moon…." Her eyes glittered as she looked up at him. "Do you have any idea how much power that gives them? How much power it will give those who control them?"

Power…. As Parise lifted her hand, Dean's heart began racing over the possibilities behind her statement. Whatever they had planned sounded a helluva lot bigger than just taking back souls they considered no longer rightfully his or Sam's. Souls were also a source of power – nuclear power – he got that. Exhibit A – Cas's recent… power trip. But what knowledge, what access made Winchester souls so high octane? If it was some memory from Heaven or Hell that set his soul apart, he didn't have a clue what it could be.

Parise walked over to Sam. "But still Ti-Jean is not satisfied. He has heard the stories of the demon blood, of the power it fed that was strong enough to re-cage the Lightbringer himself…. He wants it – and he'll drink your brother's blood to get it." She crouched down, placed her hand on Sam's chest and shook her head. "But that darkness is gone. I don't know if Ti-Jean's thirst for power has blinded him or if that demon he prays to has fed him lies, but tomorrow we shall all be witness to his disappointment."

"_That demon he prays to…._" Dean's heart was racing even faster. How was a demon tangled up with Ti-Jean?

Parise stood up and crossed back to Dean. "Of course, his disappointment will only be the beginning. He-"

The door to the peristyle opened suddenly, a big, muscular black man striding inside. Dean got his first good look at Ti-Jean when the bokor stepped in front of him, likewise studying his prisoner.

He was as big as Sam, maybe bigger, with a shaved head and dark, hard eyes that seemed to stare right through Dean. Behind him, Dean saw anger flash briefly across Parise's face before she dropped her head and stepped back in a show of mock subservience.

Ti-Jean's gaze moved to Dean's tattoo. "You have broken the lock?"

"Yes. You doubted me?" Some of Parise's veiled anger leaked into her response.

"No. You know too well the cost of failure." Ti-Jean turned from Dean and walked over to Sam. "And this one?"

Parise joined him at Sam's side. "He'll live – no thanks to DaCoste's bullet."

"So the body will survive the loss of his loa?"

Parise nodded.

"And his blood?"

Dean's stomach lurched at the thought of Ti-Jean drinking Sam's blood. Even on the dark side, blood as part of Bo ritual was way more Hollywood than fact; this was something the bokor had cooked up all on his own.

Parise again crouched down, pressing her hand to Sam's forehead, his chest and then his arm above the bullet wound. "By the time the Blood Moon rises, the drugs and the infection will both be purged from him. His blood will be pure. You will be able to share in whatever power it possesses."

"Good." Ti-Jean nodded, then turned and walked in a circle around Dean. "They're both strong… fit…. Their zombies will make good soldiers." The bokor smiled coldly at Dean. "You will serve me well."

Zombies? Now Dean really felt sick. He stared back at the bokor, fighting the instinct to throw a punch, to give himself away. Now was not the time, but as he locked stares with Ti-Jean, Dean knew that before this was over, the two of them would have it out.

If the bokor picked up on any of Dean's fury, he made no show of it. Ti-Jean turned and walked toward the door without looking back at Parise. "Come. We have final preparations to make."

Parise's anger was no longer veiled. "And leave them alone?" She placed her hand on Sam's wounded arm. "This… fixing this would not have been necessary if you'd listened to me and watched him more closely."

Ti-Jean stopped in the threshold, still not turning around, but Dean didn't have to see his face to know he was pissed. "Remember your place, Parise. If they were sheep, we'd have no use for them. Kalfou has tested us, made certain we are worthy of his gift. We will not fail him a second time."

Kalfou. Dean knew that name – he was Voodoo's crossroads demon and Lucifer all rolled into one. While Papa Legba guarded the gates to Voodoo Heaven, Kalfou controlled the gates to Hell; he dragged loa in, but also let out evil loa to wreak havoc among the living. He was among the nastiest of the dark loa and a favorite patron among the bokor.

Some said he was a demon, although Kalfou himself denied it – no shock there. But if he was a demon…. Dean swallowed. Then he'd know a helluva lot more about him and Sam than was circulating on the hunter grapevine.

Parise pushed herself up and crossed the room, pausing beside Dean. "Sit… rest. Tomorrow is a big day." Anger again flashed in her eyes as she glared at the departing bokor, her next words muttered under her breath. "Even bigger than some of us can see."

She followed Ti-Jean out the door, closing it behind her.

Dean wanted to let out a primal yell that rattled the rafters. He wanted to put his fist through the window of the peristyle. He wanted to sweep his arm across the altar, knocking every damn thing on it onto the floor – all to prove control of his body was his. His. He wanted Ti-Jean to come back so the two of them could have it out, so he could batter the smug bastard into a bloody pulp.

But he couldn't, not any of it – not with Sam hurt. Awake and healthy, his brother would be right with him, fighting at his side, but until he was, Dean would have to rein in his temper, and wait.

He stumbled across the peristyle, needing concerted effort to force one foot in front of the other until he dropped to his knees at Sam's side. He checked his brother's pulse – it was steady; his breathing – also steady, and without the hitch that had been there just a short time earlier; and his temperature – still high, but falling.

Dean sat back on his haunches and glanced around the shack. If he couldn't fight his way to freedom, there had to be another way out of this mess.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Sam was back in the crate – only now the lid was glass and inside it felt like a sauna. His mouth was dry and it was hard to breathe. In the confined heat, he felt himself getting weaker and weaker as he pounded his fists against the glass yelling for help.

Dean appeared suddenly above him, expression stony. His brother pulled back his fist and drove it down toward Sam's face, smashing it into the lid. The glass shattered under the blow, an explosion of shards raining down on Sam. He threw up his arm to protect himself, pain shooting from his elbow to his shoulder as glass sliced into flesh.

"Sammy!"

He woke with a jolt, heart racing and breathing rapidly.

"S'okay…. Chill."

Sam's head snapped toward his brother's voice, eyes darting about the room as he did. He wasn't in the crate – he was lying on the floor, Dean sitting beside him, the room lit by candles. The pain, though, was real, his whole right arm pulsing with it. He groaned, instinctively cradling the limb against his chest. "Son of a-"

"You got shot." Dean cleared his throat as he stilled Sam's arm. "Bullet's out, but you're still fighting infection so no stitches yet. The wound's open, capice? So… keep still."

Sam swallowed against pain-fueled nausea, then nodded. Dean sounded strange, his voice hoarse like it hadn't been used in a while. What the hell had happened? His mind was a kaleidoscope of images: the kidnapping… the crate… his escape… getting shot. But he'd gotten away, gotten back to Dean. Sam's breathing escalated as he stared at his brother in confusion. "You decked me."

"Yeah, about that…." Dean rolled his eyes. "The witch… bammied me. Made me hit you to make sure I was under her control."

"Witch?" Sam frowned. "The mambo? And what the hell's bammied?"

"Shit." Dean cleared his throat again. "Whammied…. The bitch whammied me."

"With a Voodoo spell?"

Dean nodded. "That's how they got us."

Sam studied Dean worriedly. "But the spell-"

"It's wearing off, but the bad guys don't know it yet – and let's keep it that way for now… until we figure out what's what." Dean raised his hand, methodically opening and closing it, flexing his returning control. "Jack gave me some Jimson Weed. Thought at first I got a bum batch, but it's just taking its damn time to kick in. Had some for you, too, but it didn't make the trip with us."

"Trip? Where are we?" Sam groaned as a more clear-headed glance around answered his own question. "Damn it, it's the camp. We're back at the camp."

"Yeah, they – fuck, we've got company." Dean froze, his gaze locked on something at the side of the shack.

Sam's head snapped around, following Dean's line of sight. The sudden movement almost made him throw up, but through the gaps in the wooden planks that clad the building, he caught sight of a light bobbing as someone approached the peristyle.

"Play possum," Dean hissed under his breath. "Now."

Sam slammed his eyes shut, his heart pounding against his ribs as he heard the door open.

"Stay outside. They can't harm me."

It was a woman's voice – familiar, but not the mambo's. Sam sensed her settle at his side, beside Dean, as the door was closed by whoever she'd been talking to. She placed her hand on his forehead to check his temperature, then on his chest to gauge his breathing before unwrapping the bandage on his arm to clean the bullet wound. She was gentle but every touch, every movement sent needles of pain ripping through Sam, further stoking the nausea already churning in his gut. When she pressed some kind of ointment into the open wound, the burn was the last straw for his stomach.

Sam's eyes shot open, he rolled onto his side and threw up. He vomited twice more before the nausea turned to dry heaves and he fell onto his back, eyes watering and breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The woman produced a cool, damp cloth from somewhere and wiped his mouth and face, her long blonde hair falling forward as she did. "Jess?" Her name slipped out before his conscious brain caught up and realized it wasn't… it couldn't be. Damn. It was the woman from the bar – Carrie.

"You'll be OK. The poison is being purged from your system. Soon you'll feel stronger." Carrie turned to Dean. "Sit him up while we clean up this mess."

Dean did. Sam leaned back against him as Carrie changed out the soiled sheet beneath him for a fresh one. He could feel his brother's heart racing, sense the tension in him – both signs of just how hard it was for Dean to maintain this submissive façade. He was obviously still in recon mode, keeping their captors in the dark while he weighed their escape options. Sam knew there were few; and since he'd already bolted once, their captors' guards would be up. With the ceremony approaching, too, there would be a lot more people descending on the camp – a lot more obstacles between them and freedom.

He groaned as Dean lowered him onto the fresh sheet, but nodded to signal he was OK when his brother's hand lingered on his shoulder in an unspoken show of concern.

"Come – sit beside me." Carrie motioned to Dean as she pulled items from what looked like a first-aid box. "It's time to sew him up."

Carrie washed Dean's hands, then handed him a needle and suture thread. "The infection's under control. The salve inside the wound will soon take care of what's left."

Dean took the needle and turned to Sam, shooting him a look that clearly said, '_Sorry, dude, but this is gonna hurt like hell,_' before setting to work.

Oh, it hurt – like hell and then some. Dean was better with a needle than half the doctors who'd ever treated them, but Sam was still grateful there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. When his brother tied off the last stitch, sweat was running freely down Sam's temples, his chest rising and falling noticeably. Carrie smeared the stitches with more salve; then, as Dean pressed a fresh gauze pad over the wound and deftly re-bandaged it, she moved to Sam's feet and changed those dressings.

Shit, his feet. He'd managed to block out that pain, at least until Carrie started her ministrations. Sam exhaled in relief when she finished rebandaging them and left him alone.

Dean's eyes flashed angrily as he tracked Carrie's movements but his expression was neutral again when she placed two bottles of water in front of him. "One for you, one for your brother. Make sure you both drink them." Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "You're fighting it, aren't you? The orders, the control…. They said you would." She smiled. "Don't waste your energy. Your loas will be taken… just not in the manner some expect." Her gaze fell to Dean's tattoo; she ran her fingers under the burn mark from Parise's spell, but said nothing. As she picked up her bag, she glanced over at Sam, nodding in satisfaction when she noted the same burn on him, then headed for the door. "We'll be back when the sun rises to begin preparations," was all she said before closing the door after her.

Dean exhaled audibly as soon as the bobbing light outside disappeared into the trees. "Sammy?"

Sam swallowed. "M'okay."

"Oh, yeah. Nothing screams _OK _like puking your guts up."

Sam held out his good arm. "Help me up."

Dean ignored the proffered hand, moving behind Sam and slipping his arm around his back to sit him up. He held on until he was sure Sam was steady, then grabbed a bottle of water and twisted off the cap, sniffing it before passing it over.

Sam drank from it greedily, the water still cold and numbing his raw throat. He scowled when Dean pulled the bottle from his mouth. "Dude, I got it. Get off."

"Just… go easy." Dean let go, but jabbed his finger at the water. "Or that's gonna come right back up again."

He was right. Reluctantly, Sam took the cap from Dean and refastened the bottle. He frowned when it registered that his brother was bare-chested and wore loose-fitting white pants. "What the hell are you wearing?"

"Same thing you are." Dean looked down in disgust at the pants, then quirked an eyebrow at Sam. "But at least I dressed myself."

"What?" Sam glanced down to see that his track pants had been replaced by the same type of white pants Dean wore.

When he looked up, Dean winked at him. "The women gave you a sponge bath, Sammy, then redressed you. And you slept through the whole damn thing. Typical."

"Not funny." Sam had no memory of any of that. "You're screwing with me… right?"

"Uh-uh." Dean made a cross over his heart, then his expression turned serious. "No bullshit, just how messed up are you?"

Sam snorted softly. "I was having a really bad day before I got shot and it's been downhill since – but I can handle whatever it takes to get us out of here."

"That's my boy." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the window, peering into the dark outside. "They brought us here in a van, parked it up by some cabin. I saw a lot of people milling around, but this shack, that river seem deserted. Think you can swim?"

"Sure, but so can the gators."

Dean quirked an eyebrow as he turned back to Sam. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're not talking about the football team."

Sam quickly gave Dean a rundown on the layout of the camp.

"One way in, one way out…." Dean was pacing now. "That's… awesome."

Sam frowned. "How long have we been here?"

"Most of the night. I don't think we're far from dawn." Dean again cleared his throat, but the more he talked, the more he sounded like himself. "The blonde chick's been checking up on you every couple of hours but I was able to poke around some in between visits. We're on our own but, from what you've just said, it doesn't matter. Without a boat we're screwed."

"The blonde… her name's Carrie." Sam took another drink of water. "She was with the hunters who took me from the motel."

"Yeah, that much I figured out." Dean shook his head. "What I don't know is whose side she's on."

Sam was surprised by that. "You think she might be able to help us?"

Again, Dean shook his head. "Uh-uh, no way. Look, Cliff's Notes version – they want our souls. Souls are a power source, right? Pure energy. But something about ours having been to Heaven and Hell makes them high-octane. Ti-Jean's planning this big shindig under the Blood Moon to take'em – which apparently turns high-octane into nuclear fuel rods. What they plan to do with that power I haven't quite figured out. But what I do know is that Parise is tired of playing second fiddle, wants that power for herself and says she has her patron loa, Erzulie, on board with the double-cross."

"Erzulie?" Sam twisted and untwisted the cap on the bottle of water. "Jealousy is one her biggest traits. If she thought another loa was getting a shiny new toy, she'd want it for herself. Who's Ti-Jean's patron?"

"Kalfou – and we both know he could teach Lucifer a lesson or two when it comes to playing nasty. Bottom line – there's a tug-of-war about to play out with you and me as the rope. Now, this Carrie chick seems to be working with Parise but there's bad blood there, too." Dean stared at the door Carrie had just disappeared through. "And what she just said – '_Your loas will be taken, just not in the manner some expect_' – I see two ways to read that. One, she's loyal to Parise and Ti-Jean's about to get screwed over by two high-ranking members of his flock, or two-"

Sam's eyes widened. "She's a double agent – reporting back to the bokor on everything Parise does."

"Yahtzee. In which case, it's my one-night-stand-from-Hell who's about to get screwed – something I'm totally onboard with, by the way." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Of course, the main flaw in this showdown is that you and me are royally boned whichever way it plays out."

Sam frowned as he noticed the burn that now scarred the center of his tattoo, wincing as he ran his fingers over it. "Did the mambo do this? Did she break the tattoo's protection?"

Dean nodded slowly. "She thinks so."

"So how does possession tie into this?" Sam tilted his head to stare up at the big altar. "We don't follow Voodoo, we've never pledged ourselves to any loa. I guess that means our souls are up for grabs. If they possess us, maybe it-"

"Brands us like cattle?" Dean snorted. "Man, this just keeps getting better. Come tonight, they plan to steal our supernova souls AND turn us into zombie mercenaries." He did a double take at Sam's look of surprise. "Oh, did I leave out that last part? Yeah, once our souls have left the mother ship, whoever wins the battle of the bokors gets to keep our meatsuits as hired help."

"Zombies?" A chill ran through Sam. "They wanna turn us into zombies?"

Dean's exaggerated grin was back. "Two-for-one special – that's us!"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Never think your day can't get worse, because it _always_ can." His mind was spinning. "OK, I get why Kalfou wants our souls. The loa, the gods, are souls themselves – ancient souls, sure, but in their purest form they're still energy. Over time that energy gets depleted, which gives us the whole animal sacrifice ritual. Kill the chicken, its life-force is released and the loa uses that energy to recharge its batteries."

Dean snorted. "If Sunday dinner can recharge a god, just think what Kalfou can do with our souls amped up under the Blood Moon."

"But that's my point." Sam winced as he turned to his brother. "Kalfou gets 'roided up on our souls, but what about Ti-Jean? What about Parise? One, they expect to get a couple of zombies out of this deal, which means we can't be dead… well, dead-dead, at the end of it all. And two, from what you said, they think they've hit the jackpot finding us and harvesting our souls. That's kinda over-the-top if Kalfou gets the mojo and all they get is a pat on the head and the leftovers."

Dean scowled. "Dude, I am nobody's _leftovers_. But you're right. If Ti-Jean and Parise are jacked about taking the souls, we're missing a piece." He turned around and started poking through the items that littered the top of the big altar. "OK, one thing at a time. First, zombies. We both know bokors can't really raise the dead, but Kalfou needs our souls to check out of Hotel Winchester if he wants to power up on them. So, to give the boss what he wants but still make Zombie Sam or Zombie Dean, what does the bokor do?"

"He fakes our deaths."

"Bingo. Zombie Making 101. He doses us with some kind of neurotoxin which tricks the soul into thinking the body's dead. The soul leaves, Kalfou nabs it, then Ti-Jean gives us the antidote. You wake up as Soulless Sam 2.0 and I turn into one scary-but-damn-good-looking son of a bitch."

Sam felt like he was about to lose his lunch all over again. "I didn't much like my soulless self when I was driving. I sure as hell don't want him back with someone else at the wheel."

Dean snorted. "I have issues with someone else driving my car. How do you think I feel about someone else driving me? It was bad enough with Parise at the wheel. I-" He froze, staring at something on the altar.

Sam frowned. "What? What is it?"

"Damn it…. I must've picked through this altar half a dozen times already. Why am I just seeing this now?" Dean reached over and picked up a small clay pot with a lid, Bo symbols encircling the widest point. He held it up for Sam to see. "What does this look like to you?"

Sam's eyes widened. "That's a po'tet – a head pot. What they use-"

"To keep souls in." Dean reached across the altar and picked up a second, identical po'tet. "And why would he have two? Couldn't possibly have anything to do with plans to yank out our souls later tonight, could it?"

Sam stared at the pots. "No way Ti-Jean is stupid enough to think he could steal the souls from Kalfou. He'd smite his ass in a heartbeat. Not to mention how would he do it? I mean, when you die, the soul is expelled like a bullet from a gun. No way a human, even a bokor, has the power to trap it."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "Come on, Sammy. I know you're not firing on all cylinders but you know the answer to this."

Sam scowled at Dean; then it came to him. "Damn it. When a bokor's making a zombie, the poison only simulates death. The soul – it's confused. It doesn't know whether to stay or go, so it hovers over the body – and that makes it easy to trap."

"And once it is, it's bound to whoever traps it – forced to carry out their orders." Dean put down the pots and tapped his tattoo. "Parise picked this lock, which says Kalfou and/or Erzulie are gonna make an appearance tonight to claim our souls. No way is Ti-Jean gonna try stealing them with the bosses around." He looked over at Sam. "Parise said Erzulie is onboard with her coup attempt. What if Kalfou knows what Ti-Jean's doing? What if he's behind the plan?"

Sam frowned "Why? Why would he give up that kind of power?"

"For another kind." Dean turned to face Sam. "What if he wants to turn us into zombi astral – soul eaters."

Sam felt his insides twist. Soul eaters were the most powerful weapon in Bo, an unstoppable spirit assassin, hunting down whoever the bokor or loa ordered and consuming each victim's soul in the process. With each kill, the soul eater became more powerful, more unstoppable. "But… they're more myth than fact because, well, step one is stealing a soul – never a good career move. And even if Kalfou's onside in this case, the other loa aren't just gonna sit back and do nothing if he suddenly rolls out Bo's answer to a WMD."

Dean shrugged. "How are they gonna stop him? Roll out one of their own? To even come close, they'd have to wait until next year's Blood Moon. Kalfou could do some serious damage between now and then. And if any loa challenged him, my guess is they'd become the next target."

Sam forehead furrowed as he considered that fact. "Is that even possible? Can a zombi astral kill a god?"

"Not really my area of expertise." Dean shook his head. "But they're soul eaters – and the loa are souls."

Sam swallowed. "Maybe that's where Heaven and Hell come in. One of the few places Kalfou is barred from is Heaven. His twin, Papa Legba, keeps him well outside the velvet rope."

"So if old Kal wanted to stick it to Legba, wanted to snatch a soul safely stashed in Heaven…." Dean straightened up. "He could send in a zombi astral and have them – us – grab one right from under Legba's nose. Erzulie can't get into Hell; if she and Parise win this little tug-of-war, she'll send the souleaters downstairs, have them steal from Kalfou."

Sam nodded. "We've had our tickets punched for both Heaven and Hell. Maybe that means they can't keep us out of either place. Son of a bitch…. We'd be the only hitmen in existence who could go after the living and the dead, with full access to Heaven and Hell."

Dean frowned. "Access. That's exactly the word Parise used."

"Well, it's not happening." Sam started to push himself up, stopping only when Dean put a warning hand on his shoulder.

"Where the hell are you going?"

Sam scowled up at his brother. "I wanna find something – anything – to stop them from turning us into soul eaters. I want-"

"Amen to that, but you need to stay put. The longer we keep Ti-Jean and the rest in the dark about what kind of shape we're in, the longer they leave us alone, and we need that time to figure things out." Dean cut him off as he started to object. "If someone checks in on us, bandaged feet plus dirt floor equals dead giveaway you've been moving around. Now, park it."

"I'll stay on the damn sheet."

"You don't and I'll knock you right back on your ass." Dean's threat was in complete contrast to the gentle way he helped Sam up and kept an arm around his back to support him. "How are the feet?"

Sam bit his lower lip. "Fine." He grimaced as he took one tentative step forward, then another.

"Uh-huh." Dean didn't sound the least bit convinced. He held on to Sam until they reached the end of the sheet, at which point Sam gently but firmly pushed him away.

"Dude – thanks, but if we have any hope of getting out of here, you can't be carrying me. I gotta do this on my own." Unsteadily, Sam turned around, but could still feel Dean's worried gaze locked on him. "And you staring is not helping."

"It's not like I have someplace to go." Dean folded his arms as Sam studied the altar contents. "And unless you can figure out a way to MacGyver that stuff into a boat, there's nothing that gonna help us."

"Damn it." Sam raked his fingers through his hair, an unconscious habit that this time almost toppled him.

Dean took an instinctive step forward but halted himself when Sam regained his balance. "I've got a plan, but you're not gonna like it."

Sam turned to face Dean, a little steadier this time. "I pretty much don't like anything that's happened today, so try me."

"We need a diversion. And for the biggest impact, the best time to-"

"No, Dean. No way." Sam could see where this was going.

"…create one, is during the ceremony. Dude, you said it yourself – this place has one way in, one way out. At the end of that one way are guys with guns and a big, bald dude and a bitch who have the means to hex us into submission. And thanks to you Great Escaping once, they're gonna be on high alert." Dean waved at the altar. "Screw making a boat, if you can figure out a way to mix up that crap into some kind of gator repellent, we'll swim out of here. But other than that, I'm out of options."

Sam let his eyes slide shut. Dean was right, but there was so much that could go sideways if they were still here when the ceremony began.

Dean seemed to read his mind. "Sammy, look – I know it's risky, but right now, for us, the best place to hide-"

"Is in a crowd." Sam exhaled audibly, then opened his eyes. "I know. And there'll be a crowd here tonight. No way will Ti-Jean miss the opportunity to show off how tight he is with Kalfou or his shiny new toys. Fine. What did you have in mind?"

"I'm thinking explosion." Dean moved to the altar, twisted the lid off a jar and sniffed the contents. "Gator repellent may not be an option but there's gotta be something here that'll give us enough of bang to scatter the crowd and let us disappear with them."

Sam stumbled as he moved toward Dean and, this time, his brother was forced to catch him. "Damn it." He shoved Dean away in frustration. "How the hell can we bolt out of here if I can't even walk across the fucking room."

"When we get our chance, you'll be ready." Dean scowled when Sam turned suddenly, moving towards the outside of the room. "Where you going now?"

Sam gestured at the artwork that decorated the floor. "That might give us what we need."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "The carpet thing?"

Sam nodded. "It's not a carpet, it's a veve – kind of a ritual magnet that draws the loa to earth, forces them to walk among the living." He pointed to a couple of the symbols. "The hearts – they're for Erzulie, the gates for Kalfou-"

"Dude…." Dean's scowl deepened. "We already know who's coming to dinner. How can we use this thing?"

"The veve is made from powders that the artist pours on the floor to form the Bo symbols. If they're following tradition, the yellow is cornmeal, the red is brick dust, the white flour and the black…. Just… sniff the black and tell me it's not black pepper."

"Sniff it?" Dean gave Sam a look that clearly said he thought his brother was losing it, but did as he was asked. He picked up a pinch of the black powder, sniffed it then turned to Sam, eyes wide. "Definitely not pepper. Put this on your steak and you've got the world's worst case of heartburn. It's gunpowder."

Sam allowed himself a small smile. "Good. You wanna blow something up, that should help."

Dean snorted. "We're sitting in a shack full of lit candles and gunpowder. Only you would think that's _good_."

Sam shrugged. "The loa are watching over us, right? They need us…. They're not gonna let us blow ourselves up."

"Yeah, right." Dean frowned when he realized Sam was leaning heavily against the altar. "OK, you need to lie down before you fall down." He moved back to Sam's side. "Sit down, at least." His jaw clenched when Sam didn't move. "OK, let's make this simple. Sit down, or I sit you down. Trust me, it's not gonna take much effort."

Sam didn't want to sit, but his body was fighting him. Reluctantly, he let go of the altar and more or less fell onto his ass, slowed only by Dean's hold.

As Sam reached for his bottle of water, Dean grabbed a small, empty bowl off the big altar. He hesitated, then moved to Erzulie's altar, grabbing ropes of pearls and some delicate silk scarves from amongst the goddess's tributes before returning to Sam's side, sitting on the edge of the sheet. "I know you've got a Rainman memory, but how the hell did you know all that obscure crap about this… veve?"

"Bobby." Sam smiled tiredly. "I was nine, ten maybe…. just getting over the measles. Dad dumped me at Bobby's while you and him took off on a hunt. Bobby was looking for something – anything – to keep me busy."

Dean snorted. "You and a gnat pretty much had the same attention span at that age."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Anyway, Bobby was doing research for some Voodoo case and reading about veves. I asked what they were and he told me. Then he figured making one would be a good way to keep me occupied. He gave me a tray, every jar in his spice rack and a picture in a book to copy. Things were going great 'til I used pepper to make the black lines. It made me sneeze and I blew away the whole art project."

Dean snorted at that.

Sam smiled. "Yeah. Course, Bobby said I would've blown up him, me and the whole damn house if I was doing the real thing, 'cause in Voodoo you use gunpowder, not pepper."

Dean shook his head. "Most kids get finger paints, you get a Voodoo art project."

Sam shrugged. "Bobby and I laughed a lot after I sneezed. I had fun. Maybe that's why I remember it."

"Or maybe it's just that you don't have an awful lot of fun memories to keep straight." Dean started pinching up gunpowder into the bowl, taking care to fill in the gaps so the veve looked relatively undisturbed. "Course, I'm having a bit of a hard time picturing Bobby 'Which-can-shall-I-open-for-dinner-tonight?' Singer owning a spice rack."

Sam snorted softly. "I think it was his wife's. When did Bobby ever throw anything out?"

"True. Especially true if the stuff was Karen's."

Sam frowned as he watched Dean snap the string holding the pearls, and dump the loose beads into the bowl of gunpowder. Then he used his teeth to rip the silk scarves into smaller pieces. "Wait, are you-"

"Yep." Dean grinned. "MacGyver ain't got nothing on Dean Winchester. We may just get our sorry asses out of this mess after all."

**xxxXXXxxx**

In the harsh light of day, Dean wasn't feeling quite so confident.

He'd had too much time to think about everything that could possibly go wrong.

Sam had eventually drifted off, despite his best efforts to fight the pull of sleep. The sound of hammering and muted voices woke him after only a couple of hours as workers had shown up at dawn to begin pulling off the boards that covered the upper half of each wall of the shack. The door and window were soon gone, too, leaving the roof held up by the four corner posts and the tall center column. None of this came as a surprise; peristyles were usually open-air structures. Those directly involved with the ceremony stayed under the roof, while the Bo followers gathered around the outside of the building to watch the proceedings.

Parise and Carrie returned a few hours after the workers. They changed the bandage on Sam's arm, removed the bandages from his feet, only applying salve rather than replacing the dressings, and left a bowl of fruit and bread and fresh bottles of water as breakfast.

Since then, the brothers had had little time to themselves. Junior priestesses came and went throughout the day, bringing fresh flowers and sweets for Erzulie's altar, garlands of flowers to wrap around each post and other ceremonial items. Two men showed up with drums, placing them just to the right of Kalfou's altar. The veve artist returned, tweaking and tidying his work – but if he noticed a significant drop in the amount of gunpowder it contained, he gave no sign. Still more workers set the large campfire in front of the peristyle while DaCoste and his armed men patrolled the bank of the bayou to keep the alligators at bay.

Dean studied Sam. He seemed steadier, stronger than the night before – at least the forced rest had had that one benefit. The flush of fever was gone and he was now more pissed than in pain. Still, he was a long way from being ready to fight his way out of the camp.

Sam seemed to read his mind. "I want outta here, Dean. Whatever it takes, I'm up for it."

Yeah, the mind was willing but the body needed a few more days rest to back it up.

Sam waited until DaCoste had turned away from the peristyle. "What about you? Any aftertaste from Parise's hex?"

Dean reflexively curled his fists. "I'm back in the driver's seat – one hundred per cent."

Sam still seemed worried. "How long does the Jimson Weed last?"

"Good question." Dean could only offer a small shrug. "Let's hope it's long enough."

Half-way through the afternoon, Parise showed up with DaCoste and another armed man in tow, and dropped a pair of pull-on canvas loafers in front of each brother. "Put those on."

Sam picked up a shoe and scowled at the mambo. "Why?"

Parise huffed impatiently. "Because, to be blunt, you stink. You need to bathe before the ceremony. Erzulie demands it. Now, I can have DaCoste toss you in the bayou, and you can take your chances with the alligators, or you can come up to the cabin and shower there. The choice is yours."

"Turn the stars of this shindig into gator bait hours before the show is set to open?" Dean turned slowly toward her, a dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Kind of an empty threat, don't you think?"

Parise returned the smile in kind. "And the caged lion bares his teeth."

"Oh, I have quite a bite." Dean winked at her. "Course, you knew that already."

Parise chuckled. "I was wondering how long you could keep up the act, mon cher. I know when a man is under my spell – and when he isn't."

Dean snorted. "That is such crap – I'm just tired of playing this game." That was the truth; he'd watched the comings and goings of the camp all day long, gathered as much intel as he could, and no longer saw any tactical advantage to playing the spellbound submissive. He shot a glare at DaCoste. "From here on in, save your orders for your lapdog. I'm done."

Parise nodded at DaCoste, and he gave Sam a sharp kick to the sole of his injured foot.

Sam's pained yell elicited a loud, furious, "You son of a bitch," from Dean. He leapt to his feet, his fists full of DaCoste's shirt before he was even fully upright. Only the rifle jammed into his ribs stopped him from decking the man.

Parise's smile was now bemused. "I'd rethink your stance, Dean. There are plenty of ways to make the time until the ceremony very unpleasant, especially for Sam, without doing any real damage. So, why don't you just do as you're told, put on the shoes and come with us."

Dean let go of DaCoste's shirt, giving the man a shove as he did so, and stepped back. He jammed his feet into the deck shoes without ever breaking eye contact with DaCoste and held out a hand to help his brother get to his feet. "Sam? You up for this?"

"Let's just do it." Sam bit back a groan as he pulled the shoes onto his injured feet. "Besides…." He grabbed Dean's wrist. "I'm kinda ripe."

"Well, I wasn't gonna say anything…." Dean glanced down; Sam gave him a look and a small shrug that clearly said, '_Let's take the chance, dude. Maybe we'll see something we can use_.'

Sam was not moving fast enough for DaCoste's liking. The guard grabbed him by the arm, right below the bullet wound and tried to forcefully yank him to his feet.

With Sam's agonized shout, Dean snapped. He spun and slammed his fist into DaCoste's jaw, knocking him to the floor and sending him tumbling toward the center post. He turned on the second guard but took a rifle butt to the temple, the blow dazing him, the impact knocking him to the ground at Sam's side.

Through blurred vision, Dean saw the guard raise the rifle for a second blow, but Sam grabbed the barrel one-handed, eyes flashing with fury as he wrestled with man for control.

"Don't even fucking think about it." There was a threatening growl to Sam's voice that surprised even Dean. Apparently his brother had also reached the end of his tether when it came to playing passive prisoner.

"Enough!" Parise stepped in front of the guard, pushing him away from the brothers. Her glare turned on DaCoste as he staggered to his feet. "Both of you, wait outside." She reached for Dean's face, his eye already starting to swell and blood trickling down his temple. He angrily batted away her hand. "Fine. Get yourselves on your feet and meet us outside. You have five minutes." She quickly crossed the peristyle and disappeared down the steps.

The moment she was gone, Sam turned to Dean. "Y'okay?"

"No." Dean screwed his eyes closed, his head muzzy from the blow. Sam said nothing, but Dean felt his brother's hand close around his upper arm in a silent show of support. He opened his eyes, blew out a breath and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered, more unsteady than he cared to admit, even to himself, but held out a hand to Sam. "Come on, let's get this over with."

"Roger that." Sam groaned as Dean hauled him to his feet, the sudden set of his jaw clearly stating that his feet were not yet ready to support the considerable weight now on them. Dean slipped his arm around Sam's back, while Sam threw his good arm over Dean's shoulders.

Sam snorted softly as they began moving toward the doorway. "Who's holding up who, huh?"

"Shut up."

The trek from the peristyle to the cabin was slow going, with Sam setting the pace, robotically putting one foot in front of the other. Still, they made it without incident, although by the time they arrived Sam was a few shades paler and Dean's burgeoning black eye was beginning to impair his vision.

Entering the cabin, they were the center of attention. Preparations for the ceremony in the kitchen and living space ground to a halt, conversation giving way to silence as they passed through. Once inside the bedroom, Parise closed the door and motioned for Sam to hit the bathroom first.

He leaned more heavily on the furniture than Dean liked to see, but he made it under his own steam. Parise stopped him at the door with one final instruction. "Be sure to wash your hair."

Sam just closed the door and Dean rolled his eyes but, yeah, that was part of the whole Voodoo ritual, too – a do-it-yourself version of the lave tete, or washing of the head, before a planned possession.

Ten minutes later, Sam emerged wearing a clean pair of white pants, his wet hair brushed back off his face and the bandage missing from his arm. The skin was bruised around the stitches but there was no longer any visible sign of infection.

"Dean." Parise motioned with her head toward the now vacant bathroom, as she placed a fresh towel and a clean pair of pants on the counter.

Dean cut her off as she started to speak. "Yeah, yeah, I know – don't forget the shampoo. Got anything with extra conditioner? This bayou heat makes me all frizzy." He slammed the door in her face before she could answer.

He stripped quickly and turned on the water, but once he stepped under the shower, he started to shake. It was anger, it was frustration – it was fear….

All the way from the peristyle to the cabin he'd had his eyes peeled for any opening to take advantage of, any way they could move up their escape attempt to well before the ceremony. He didn't want to be part of it any more than Sam did, but there was nothing. Not a damn thing. His brother had caught Ti-Jean's men with their pants down once; this time, they'd made damn sure the compound was firmly zipped up. There were armed guards along the trail, guards in the clearing between the cabin and the garage, and even guards along the long, gravel driveway that led to the road. Hell, there were even guards along the river now – although more to keep the gators in than the brothers out.

It was déjà vu all over again as Dean curled his fingers into a fist and channeled all his anger and frustration into punching the wall, slamming his fist into the tiles three, five, seven… he lost count how many times. He stopped only when his knuckles were bloody, fresh cuts joining the reopened gash from the motel room. Then he shut off the hot tap, letting the stinging needles of ice cold water cool his temper, steel his nerves and help him regain control. When he pulled open the bathroom door minutes later, his mask was firmly back in place.

Sam was sitting on the end of the bed as Parise taped closed a fresh bandage on his arm. She kept working as Dean emerged. "It sounded like there was a fight in there."

She looked up when Dean said nothing. "Whatever. Let's go."

The walk back was uneventful, although Dean was still scanning every person, every building, every tree looking for any possible advantage, anything to help with an escape. He saw nothing of use.

At the peristyle Parise motioned for them to retake their places on the sheet. Settling beside his brother, Dean noted the relief of Sam's face now he was no longer on his feet.

Parise held out her hands. "Shoes."

Dean looked up at her in disbelief. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. Where the hell are we gonna go?"

Parise didn't move.

Dean rolled his eyes and yanked off the loafers, slamming them into the mambo's hands. Sam did the same. Once she had the shoes, she turned and left without saying another word.

A priestess came up the steps right after the mambo left, giving the brothers each a bowl of hot chicken, rice and vegetables, and a spoon to eat with – no damn knives or forks. Then, they were left alone.

Sam nodded in approval after trying the food. "Gotta say, they feed us better than anyone else who's ever kidnapped us. Although it kinda feels like fattening the lambs for slaughter, you know?"

"Yeah." Dean, strangely, was the one with no appetite. "They don't give a crap about us, they're just taking care of the meatsuits that'll host their damn loa." He shoved aside the bowl of food. "Look, we know what's gonna go down, we just don't know how. But first chance we get, we gotta take it. Right?"

Sam frowned, the spoon stopping halfway his mouth. "Right. If you're closest, you'll do it, if I am, I will. Where you going with this?"

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "If one of us is screwed… if it's too late, the other's still gotta make a break for it."

Sam dropped his spoon into the dish. "Translation, if you go down, I'm supposed to run and leave you behind. You gonna make me the same promise if they take me down first?" When Dean didn't answer, he snorted. "Thought so. So let's just make sure both of us get the hell out, alright?"

Dean almost smiled at that. Almost.

The sun had gone down the next time they saw DaCoste. He strode into the peristyle with two men and a priestess in tow. He said nothing but motioned with his rifle for the brothers to get up. When they did, one of the men grabbed Sam's arms, pulled them in front of him and bound his wrists with leather rope.

Dean's jaw clenched at the pained grunt the rough handling elicited from Sam and glared at DaCoste. As the man with the rope moved over to Dean, Dean raised his arms, crossing his wrists. DaCoste smirked as his partner grabbed Dean's arm, spun him around and pulled his arms behind him, fastening his wrists behind his back. Fuck. That added another wrinkle to their escape plan. He winced as the rope was tightened, the leather biting into his skin.

The priestess gathered up their dishes, folded the sheet and redistributed the candles around the peristyle. Then she set about lighting every candle in the place until it was filled with a warm, yellow glow. Outside in the gray light of dusk, the moon was just beginning to climb over the tree line on the far river bank.

DaCoste's smirk was still in place as he nodded at the brothers. "It's time."

_**Continued in Chapter 5…**_

**A/N**: _Just one more chapter to go – and there's lots of action in store! Thanks so much for reading. Cheers._


	5. Chapter 5

**SUMMARY:** _Casefic. The tables are turned on Sam and Dean – this time they're the hunted, and it's a new enemy who wants them._

**SPOILERS:** _Set late in Season 7. References to canon incidents through Season 6, and some oblique references to a couple of Season 7 incidents but no plot spoilers for anything in Season 7. This is a casefic which takes place in-between canon hunts._

**DISCLAIMER:**_ The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude._

**RATING:**_ T for swearing, including the 'big boy' words, as Jensen once called them, adult situations, and violence._

**WORD COUNT:**_ 30K+_

**GENRE:**_ Gen/Hurt-Comfort/Adventure_

**A/N:**_ And here it is, the final chapter. Thank you all so, so much for the amazing support for this story. _

_I've done research for the medical and Voodoo aspects of this story, but am certainly no expert in either. For the medical info, please forgive any inaccuracies. For the Voodoo, I have done what Supernatural itself does – take factual elements and present them in a fictional way, mixing together lore from New Orleans, Haiti and West Africa._

_Written for JaniceC678 and LittleLady, based on a plot bunny they came up with, and gave me to play with. The full prompt appears at the end of this chapter. Beta-ed by the always awesome Harrigan. Merci, mon ami. I tinkered post-beta, so any remaining goofs are mine and mine alone. Enjoy._

**BLOOD OF THE BAYOU**

**By Scullspeare**

**Chapter Five**

The drummers led the procession and were the first to enter the peristyle. They knelt on the floor to the right of Kalfou's altar, goatskin drums between their knees, and began to play, slowly at first, their syncopated rhythm gradually picking up speed.

Sam and Dean, flanked by their guards, stood in front of Erzulie's altar and watched as a steady stream of Ti-Jean's followers wended their way to the river from the cabin. The bobbing lights of the candles they carried were visible long before they were, the sound of their voices, chanting to the rhythm of the drums, echoing off the bayou waters as they surrounded the peristyle.

There were hundreds of them. The rising moon and all the candles made it easy to see the individual faces even as they moved as one, bobbing their heads and stomping their feet in unison with each beat of the drum.

"Sammy."

Caught up in the spectacle, Sam jumped at the sound of his name but quickly snapped his attention to Dean. DaCoste had a firm hold of his brother's arm, gripping tighter each time Dean tried to wrench it free and growing more pissed with each attempt. Sam had no doubt that Dean was pushing his captor's buttons intentionally, distracting him from the fact that he was working to free his hands.

Dean nodded his head is a show of solidarity. "Do what you have to. Whatever it takes."

Sam had barely given a terse nod in response when DaCoste jammed an elbow into Dean's ribs. His brother grunted in pain as he jackknifed forward reflexively.

"Shut it." DaCoste glanced at his men and jerked his head toward Sam. "That one first. Ti-Jean wants his blood."

Sam's eyes widened as he was shoved forward. Blood? A second shove slammed him into the post at the center of the peristyle. He stumbled as they spun him around, almost going down, but his two guards grabbed him and forced his bound arms over his head, securing his wrists to a large nail high on the pole. The rough handling sent pain ripping through his injured arm, causing his knees to buckle, in turn putting even more stress on his arms. It took a moment to register that the agonized yell echoing around him was his own.

"Leave him alone, you son of a bitch. There's no fucking demon blood in him." Dean's livid voice cut easily through the drums and the chanting. "He-"

Sam shakily regained his feet in time to see DaCoste drive an elbow into Dean's temple, reopening the cut there and dropping his brother to his knees, quickly cutting off his protest. Demon blood? That's what Ti-Jean was after?

The crowd fell silent, riveted by the fracas in the peristyle, but the drums continued. DaCoste and another guard kept Dean on his knees, each now maintaining an iron grip on a shoulder and his biceps to ensure he didn't move.

Chest heaving and blood running down his temple, Dean lifted his head and glared up at DaCoste before offering an apologetic shrug to Sam. He'd known that Ti-Jean wanted Sam's blood. Why the hell hadn't he said anything?

Dean read his mind. "You're tapped out, Sammy. I was hoping the son of a bitch would figure that out. Guess he's-"

DaCoste shut him up with another blow to the head as six women, junior priestesses, all in long red dresses, filed into the peristyle. Each carried a large flat basket holding flowers, fruits, money – more gifts for the loa. As the baskets were set down around the big altar, one priestess began to chant, the cadence of her words a perfect accompaniment to the drumbeats. The other five priestesses added their voices before the worshipers outside again joined the chorus.

Parise entered next, also dressed in red, but with a long black snake draped around her neck. The snake, a water moccasin, represented Dhamballah-Wedo, the father of all loas who brought forth creation. She was followed by Carrie, who held a large basket filled with flowers, perfumes, sweets, all things loved by Erzulie, and it was placed in front of the small altar. The two women then turned to face the front of the peristyle, standing at DaCoste's side, almost directly in front of Sam.

Ti-Jean entered last, dressed all in black and carrying a six-foot staff, topped by a large ceremonial rattle. He'd timed his entrance so that the moon had just topped the trees. It was full and bright, a massive yellow-red sphere turning night into day and waters that had been blue-green in daylight to reddish black.

Ti-Jean banged the staff on the floor three times and the chanting and drumming stopped instantly. Suddenly, there was complete silence, broken only by Sam's harsh breathing.

The bokor walked slowly up to Sam, opened his arms wide and began reciting an incantation in a French dialect. He lowered the staff so that the rattle touched Sam's chest, turned and pointed the staff at the moon, shook it so that it rattled loudly, and then banged it on the floor three more times.

The drumming started again, then the chanting, the crowd outside undulating with it as before. Ti-Jean nodded at Parise who stepped forward, lifting the snake from around her neck and holding it up in front of Sam while she chanted, eyes closed. Ti-Jean then joined her in the incantation, placing his hands on the snake, on either side of the mambo's. When they finished, he stepped back and Parise slid her hand along the snake until it was behind its head. She kissed the snake's head, then lifted it so that its flicking tongue almost brushed Sam's face. Instinctively, he pulled back but when the snake hissed and extended its fangs, Parise moved the snake to Sam's arm, allowing it to plunge those fangs into Sam's biceps.

"You bitch!" Dean's voice was low and furious but there was no question that Parise heard it. "You are gonna pay for that."

Sam winced at the bite, but the only sensation that followed was the feel of warm blood running down his arm. The moccasin was a poisonous viper but he experienced no telltale signs of venom. It was a dry bite, leading him to think they'd milked the snake before the ceremony. He nodded at Dean to signal he was OK.

Dean took no solace in that, eyes still full of fury and locked on Parise.

"Pay for it?" The mambo handed off the snake to Carrie and took a ceremonial cup and knife from another priestess. She met Dean's glare as she turned and smiled. "To get what this will give us, I will gladly pay that price."

Parise stepped in front of Sam, pressed the flat edge of the knife blade above the bite and used it to pump Sam's blood into the cup.

When she stopped, Sam was light-headed, the blood loss just the latest stressor for his body to battle. The room was spinning as he watched Parise hand the cup to Ti-Jean who held it up in front of the big altar.

The bokor brought the cup to his lips and drank.

Sam closed his eyes, that image bringing back all kinds of horrific memories of his own addiction to demon blood, to the powers it fueled. Was that what Ti-Jean hoped for? That whatever made Sam respond to the blood still lay dormant within him?

When the bokor spoke, this time it was in English. "We invite our father Kalfou to join us, offer him this vessel through which to speak to us and whose loa and body will serve him for the rest of his days. Bless me with the power and guidance to shape him into your servant – one all others, human and loa alike, will fear in your name."

Sam could barely breathe, waiting for the blow that would signal Kalfou had possessed his body and evicted his soul, wondering how different it would feel to Meg and to Lucifer. He glanced over at Dean; his brother looked like he couldn't breathe, either.

Dean was struggling to break free of his guards' hold, his eyes wide and locked on Sam.

But nothing happened.

Ti-Jean went from puzzled to pissed in heartbeat and turned on Parise, eyes flashing with fury. "Imbecile. You said you had unlocked the door."

There was nothing submissive about Parise's response as she smiled smugly up at him. "I unlocked _a_ door."

She turned and walked over to Dean, holding her hand against his cheek as she closed her eyes. Dean pulled away from her touch, but her fingers threaded through his hair, holding his head in place. She spoke a brief incantation in French, ending in English with, "Accept this gift as a symbol of my loyalty and service, and as a pathway to the retribution we seek."

She had barely stepped back when Dean was thrown forward with enough force to pull him from his guards' hold and slam him face-first to the floor, as if something had run into him from behind.

Parise held up her hands; the crowd fell silent and the drumming ceased.

There was an audible snap as Dean broke the rope holding his arms behind his back. He placed his hands on the floor and pushed himself up to his knees. When he lifted his head, he was smiling. He held out his arm and Parise moved in quickly, taking it to steady him as he stood up.

Parise bowed her head. "We are honored, Maman."

Maman? Sam's chest was rising and falling rapidly. That was the mambo's term of endearment for Erzulie, not Kalfou. Erzulie had possessed Dean.

His brother moved with an almost feminine grace. He – she – gave a perfunctory nod of the head to Parise, then turned to the altar in the corner, surveying the gifts laid out for her. Erzulie nodded as if pleased, then picked up a mirror, frowning as she closely studied the image reflected back at her. "He is damaged." She ran her fingers lightly over the mottled bruising and swollen skin of Dean's black eye and the broken skin of the gash on his temple; the bruising faded to healthy pink and the cut healed beneath her touch.

"Much better." Erzulie smiled at her reflection. "You did not lie, Parise, he is a beautiful man. But when I walk among humans I prefer a feminine vessel." She turned to the mambo, running a hand down her cheek. "A far better way to experience a man such as this, ne-c'est pas? Still, for now, his form will do."

Erzulie turned toward Sam in time to see Ti-Jean lurch forward and fall to his hands and knees. The bokor lifted his head almost immediately and rose to his feet. When he turned his stance was completely different, as was his voice when he spoke. He held out his hands, clenching and unclenching them. "Not the host I was expecting."

Unable to jump into Sam, Kalfou had taken over the bokor's body. The loa glared at Dean before turning to Parise. "So, it is not your magic that is suspect, just your motives."

Parise seemed unnerved by Kalfou's attention, but Erzulie quickly stepped between the mambo and the bokor. To Sam's eyes, the protective gesture was far more Dean than the loa now driving his meatsuit.

Erzulie shook her head. "Do not turn your anger on my mambo, my brother. She only did what I asked, to prevent your… greed."

"Greed?" Now Kalfou seemed even more pissed. "These souls were unclaimed. I found them – they're mine."

Erzulie laughed softly, shaking her head. "That's where you're wrong. This one already bears my mark – he's mine."

Kalfou's expression darkened. "Then I have no use for either one of you."

Sam's breath hitched. Minus a zombi astral on a leash, he had no clue if one god could _kill_ another, but he was damn sure that Dean would be collateral damage in the attempt.

Erzulie, however, didn't seem the least bit ruffled by Kalfou's threats. She shook her head. "So much bluster in a man is not attractive, Kalfou. Now, unlike you, I'm not greedy. I'm willing to share." She moved in front of Sam, studying him closely and tapping his tattoo with her finger "My mambo personalized the lock on this one. Agree to my terms, I shall allow her to unlock it and you shall share in the spoils."

Kalfou glowered at her. "And if I don't? If I strike down your vessel where it stands?"

Erzulie shrugged. "Then I will strike down my mambo, the key dies with her and we both leave here empty-handed. The power of the Blood Moon will have been wasted."

Sam's attention jumped to Parise. She seemed neither surprised nor scared by the threat against her. He turned back to Dean, the face so familiar but the expression so foreign – the choice of words, the speech patterns definitely not his brother's. And the eyes…. As much as Dean tried to mask his emotions, as good as he was doing it after so much practice, the eyes to Sam were always a giveaway, letting him know how hurt, how angry and, on rare occasions, how happy Dean really was. Now, there was nothing. The spark that was _Dean_ was missing.

Was that how he'd looked, Sam wondered, when his soul was AWOL?

Erzulie turned back to Kalfou. "So, brother, do you agree?"

Kalfou seemed barely able to contain his rage, but Erzulie had backed him into a corner and he knew it. "Unlock this vessel. We have an agreement."

Erzulie chuckled. "See, was that so hard? The terms are the same as you proposed to your bokor. For one year, my mambo and your bokor each have the use of the zombi astral to do their bidding and ours – especially when there is business to attend to in those places neither you nor I dare tread."

Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly tinder dry. They'd been right. It sure sounded like there were grudges to settle in Heaven and Hell, and that he and Dean would be the weapons used to settle them.

Kalfou's eyes narrowed. "Send your soul-eater into my house, and you'll start a war."

Erzulie smiled. "Then give me no cause to steal from you. After one year, the captured souls are ours to reclaim… to consume. I'll add my own clause. The power they give us, the knowledge we gain from their… experiences, can be used against anyone except each other."

There was no humor in Kalfou's deep laugh. "What would be the point? We'd destroy each other in the process. But if we are chasing the same thing?"

Erzulie shrugged. "We work together, as difficult as that may be. Share the spoils. The power of these two souls combined to would be worth swallowing our pride, at least for a short time, ne-c'est-pas?"

Kalfou turned his attention to Sam. "Get on with it."

Erzulie shook her head. "Don't be petulant, brother. Another unattractive trait." She turned to Parise. "Unlock the door, but first…." She turned and walked over to Carrie. As much as the goddess had stated she preferred a female vessel, she seemed to delight in the height advantage Dean's body gave her over the young priestess. Carrie looked terrified.

Erzulie laughed. "And you should be afraid. You pledged your allegiance to me and yet you've been working with Kalfou's bokor to undermine me, to rob me of this prize. All in the hope that my brother here would strike down my mambo, allow you to take her place."

Carrie could only stammer out her protest. "I… I…."

"Hush. I have no place in my service for those who turn their back on me." Erzulie snapped her wrist and Carrie's neck snapped with it, dropping her to the ground to a collective gasp from the onlookers outside the peristyle. Here, Erzulie had lived up to her name as the Goddess of Vengeance. She turned angrily toward Kalfou. "Let this serve as a warning to your bokor if he decides to send more spies into my service. Now take your spoils and make sure your dog delivers me my zombi astral."

She glanced over at Parise. "All goes as planned, ma cherie." Erzulie again picked up a mirror from the altar, popping a strawberry into her mouth as she stared at Dean's reflection. She wiped her lips, then turned back to the mambo. "Steel yourself and know I walk with you. Before this night is over your most fervent wish will be granted."

Erzulie turned toward Sam, her energy briefly visible as it separated from Dean, before dissipating. The connection with the loa broken, Dean's body was flung backwards. The mirror Erzulie had held, still in his hand, splintered into shards as it hit the floor, while Dean smashed into the side wall of the peristyle before crumpling to the floor at the base of the goddess's altar.

"Dean!" Sam fought against the ropes binding his hands above his head. His brother wasn't moving, just lying face down on the dirt floor now that Erzulie was gone.

Parise moved to check on him but Kalfou grabbed her arm to stop her. "No. He is Erzulie's now. Let her care for him." He pointed at Sam. "Cast your spell, witch, so I may claim what's mine."

Parise nodded, but then motioned to one of her attendants to go to Dean. One of the young priestesses was forced to step over Carrie's body to get to him, but after she ran her hands over Dean's neck and chest, she glanced up at her mambo and nodded.

Sam exhaled in relief and turned his attention to the mambo and Kalfou as they stepped in front of him.

Kalfou again grabbed Parise's arm, this time eliciting a pained gasp. "Don't even think of betraying me. My patience has been tried once too often today."

"I can't." Parise wrenched her arm back. "You know that to maximize the potential power of these souls, they must be claimed under the Blood Moon. Believe me, if that was not the case, my lady would have taken both long before now."

Kalfou leaned in, his face inches from the mambo. "Your lady has no idea how to wield the power we are about to possess. It is wasted on her."

"She will do what she must, as will I. What happens beyond that, the fates have already decided." Parise turned away from him, walked over to Erzulie's altar and retrieved what to Sam looked like a partially smoked cigar. She lit it, waved her hand in front of it until the embers glowed red, and was already chanting as she walked back to him.

Sam pressed against the pole at his back, letting out a series of rapid exhales, knowing what came next. Pain still ripped through him though when the burning embers were pressed against his skin. The mambo barely acknowledged Sam's pained grunt before turning to Kalfou. "This time the door is open."

Kalfou smiled.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Dean felt strange – like he was floating. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he couldn't feel – he just was.

He could sense an incredible peace encircling him, just beyond his reach, but something was holding him back, like this was the wrong time and place for him. So what else was new?

And then he felt like he'd been hit by a bus. Something slammed into him and dropped him hard. When he came to, his face was in the dirt – literally. Every inch of him hurt – right down to the nail on his little toe. He groaned and forced open his eyes; everything was blurry and sideways. "Shit." Dean screwed his eyes closed as his head began pounding, making it hard to think.

No. It wasn't his head – it was drums. And voices, lots of voices, mingling seamlessly with the drumbeats. The memories flooded back – the Voodoo ceremony, Ti-Jean drinking Sam's blood and then… and then…. Shit. He had no freaking clue what happened next. He forced his eyes open and waited as his vision slid into focus.

Sam was still tied to the pole at the center of the peristyle, Ti-Jean and Parise standing in front of him. The mambo backed away and Ti-Jean moved directly in front of his brother. Dean didn't know exactly what was happening but behind the defiant set of Sam's jaw, his brother was scared, and that was all he needed.

"Get the hell away from my brother." His voice was little more than a croak. With a groan he pushed himself up, but froze when Ti-Jean jerked and fell to his knees and Sam slammed backwards into the post with enough force that even through the drums Dean heard wood crack. Sam hung from his bound arms for a moment, leading Dean to think he'd been knocked out. But then Sam lifted his head, straightened himself to his full height and nodded.

It wasn't Sam anymore.

"No…no… fuck." Dean knew what that meant. Kalfou had jumped on board. The cold smile on his brother's face as he stared down at Dean confirmed that fact.

Sam/Kalfou pulled his wrists apart, snapping the leather rope that bound him to the post. He lowered his arms, flexing his hands as if getting use to the feel of the new meatsuit. The drumming stopped and the crowd fell silent.

Ti-Jean was still on his knees but lifted his head as Kalfou stepped forward. The loa shot him a look of disgust. "This soul is mine – and yet I still feel cheated. Why? Because your blindness, your inability to see that your own mambo was conspiring against us, means I now have to share my prize with that vain brat Erzulie."

Erzulie had shown up? How the hell had he missed that? Dean's insides twisted. Oh, fuck – Erzulie had jumped him. There went his possession-free record, and it sure as hell explained why Kalfou was pissed. Erzulie had laid claim to his soul.

Ti-Jean was groveling now, or as close as a bokor came to it. "Take the soul. As much as I could do in your service with a zombi astral, if you feel it best serves you to take it now, do so. I will be content with the demon blood and the zombie this vessel will become."

Kalfou laughed heartily. He turned Sam's arm, studying the snake bite and trailing his fingers through the blood that stained the skin. "This vessel is scarred… the Lightbringer's wounds run deep, but no demon seed germinates within its blood. At least none that you can cultivate."

A whole host of emotions played out across Ti-Jean's face, from confusion to fury. "But you said-"

"I said the demon blood was the source of this vessel's dark power – which is true. But real power comes from balance – there is also much good within this boy, something you are sadly lacking in." Kalfou smiled petulantly. "It seems neither of us will leave here tonight with everything we expected."

Ti-Jean looked like he wanted to kill the loa, but Kalfou ignored him, walking towards the open end of the peristyle. "As for the soul, if I wanted it now, I'd take it. It's not something I need the blessing of a bokor to do." He glanced outside at the full moon, now high in the sky. "Taken under the Blood Moon it will be a powerful entity tonight. But a year from now, after a year of service consuming the loa of every one we send him after, it will be a thousand times more powerful. Then I will take it… then I will be unstoppable – even among my brethren."

"You know, this whole eating souls thing…." Dean staggered to his feet. "Got a friend who tried that. Didn't work out so well."

"Shut up," Parise hissed. "Let this play out as the fates have ordained."

Dean scowled at the mambo. "The fates? You keep saying that. What the hell does that mean?"

Sam – Kalfou – was suddenly in his face, all hard edges and anger, with no visible signs of the compassion which defined his brother, of the _good_ Kalfou had just referred to. "You are Erzulie's now. It's fortunate for you that I have no desire to deal with her tantrums or I would snap you in half just to spite her."

Dean forced a grin. "Lucky me."

Kalfou grabbed Dean by the neck and flung him across the peristyle. For the second time that night, he slammed into wall and crumpled to the floor. Before he even got his breath back, Kalfou was standing over him again. Dean slowly pushed himself up with a groan. "You know, you're the third son of a bitch to take over Sammy's meatsuit and beat the crap out of me. This is getting really old."

Kalfou's cold smile returned. "Your meatsuit, as you call it, will recover from the bruises to become Erzulie's zombie… her whore. Your soul is intact, as is my deal with her." He turned on Parise. "Of course, I made no such deal for you."

Parise glared at him defiantly. "Do what you must."

"Oh, I will." Kalfou studied her curiously. "There is so much hatred for my bokor within you." His smile turned cruel, a world apart from the crooked grin that normally played out across Sam's features. "Perhaps because you know he asked me to kill your father so that he could take your mother, have her for his own."

Dean's eyes widened at that revelation. That explained a lot.

"I've known for a long time, bided my time until I could avenge her." Parise shot a look of complete hatred at Ti-Jean, then turned back to Kalfou her eyes flashing. "Before this night is over, I will have my revenge – I have seen it."

"Really?" Kalfou's laugh was chilling. "Then perhaps you've seen this." He grabbed the mambo by the neck, easily lifting her off the ground, and carrying her to the entrance of the peristyle, her feet kicking helplessly, her strained gasps for air audible even above the muffled screams from the onlookers outside. The crowd parted as Kalfou stood in front of his followers. "Let this be a lesson to anyone who feels the need to turn against me." He flung Parise over the heads of the crowd, her terrified scream followed by a loud splash as she landed in the bayou. There was a muffled roar as the alligators sensed the unexpected prey, more splashing, and three piercing screams before an uneasy silence settled again over the peristyle.

Kalfou glanced up at the moon then strode back to the center of the peristyle. "Time grows short. Get this done." He glowered at the bokor. "I doubt I have to tell you that your next mistake will be fatal."

Before Ti-Jean could answer, there was a flash of bright energy and Sam's body jerked backwards, smashing into the center pillar hard enough to shake loose dust from the rafters. He toppled forward and slammed face first onto the floor at the bokor's feet.

"Sammy!" Sam wasn't moving and Dean was torn; jump to his brother's aid or set their plan in motion. He glanced over at DaCoste; his attention was riveted on the bokor and on Sam, not on his prisoner. Now was Dean's chance. It went against a lifetime of instinct, but he took it.

As Ti-Jean used his toe to flip Sam onto his back and motioned for the drummers to start up again, Dean snaked his hand under Erzulie's altar where he'd hidden their improvised scatter bombs, and grabbed a handful. The drummers picked up the pace, their syncopated rhythms quickly pulling the crowd out of their shocked silence. They began chanting again in time to the beat.

Dean needed the altar's help to haul himself to his feet, his back protesting loudly against the most recent abuse. A quick glance over his shoulder told him DaCoste's attention was still on the bokor.

He steadied himself, then lobbed the grenades one after the other over the crowd into the big fire pit outside. The gunpowder inside ignited the moment the flames burned away the silk, blasting the pearls like shrapnel through the crowd. They weren't going to do much damage but Ti-Jean's followers didn't know that. The loud bang as each exploded and the sting from the _shot_ were enough to quickly incite panic.

The explosions and the screams that followed as the followers began stampeding away from the river sent DaCoste's guards scrambling outside, guns drawn, but soon seeking cover themselves from the shrapnel. DaCoste turned to follow them but glanced to the side in time to see Dean tossing the last of his grenades. He charged at Dean.

Dean was ready for him, channeling all his pent-up fury and frustration into his first punch. It connected solidly with DaCoste's jaw and he staggered, his head snapping sideways. He turned back to Dean, blood running from a split lip, his glare filled with hate, and reached behind his back. He was going for a gun. Dean's hand shot out toward Erzulie's altar, fingers closing around the ceremonial knife Parise had used to pump the blood from Sam's arm. He lunged forward, burying the blade in DaCoste's heart before the gun made it past his hip. Shock was the last expression to ever register on DaCoste's face; he dropped to the floor of the peristyle, the hilt of the dagger still protruding from his chest.

Dean's attention snapped back to the bokor and Sam before DaCoste even hit the ground. "No!" His anguished shout was barely heard above the din of the continuing panic beyond the walls of the peristyle.

Sam was just coming to, his confusion obvious in the wake of his possession. Ti-Jean knelt at his feet, ignoring the screams and stampede of followers, totally focused on his task. At some point while Dean was lobbing the grenades, the bokor had donned a pair of black leather gloves. Now he held a small, ornate silver pot in one hand, a long black feather in the other. As Dean turned from DaCoste, it was to see Ti-Jean dip the feather into the pot, then draw the feather and the white powder that now coated it up the soles of Sam's bare feet, one after the other.

All ambient noise disappeared, the rapid beat of his heart the only sound Dean heard. That powder was the neurotoxin, the first step in creating a zombie. The bokor was killing Sam.

Ti-Jean set down the pot and feather and raised his hands in supplication, his focus on Kalfou's altar. "One life-force ebbs to fuel two, both in your service, my father. He-"

The crack of a gunshot cut off his prayer. Dean had grabbed DaCoste's gun and buried a bullet in the bokor's shoulder, the impact of the shot knocking Ti-Jean sideways and away from Sam. Dean scrambled to his brother's side in time to see Sam's look up at him, confusion giving way to fear. Then, his eyes rolled back and his body convulsed briefly before going deathly still.

"Sammy!" Dean's heart was trying to punch a hole in his chest. He shook Sam but there was no reaction. He slammed his head against Sam's chest, pressing his ear above his brother's heart but there was no evidence of a heartbeat, no signs of breathing.

Dean scrambled over to the bokor and grabbed him by the shirt, the bullet wound bleeding heavily but not fatal. "Where is it… the antidote?"

Ti-Jean smiled. "Once I have his loa, he will have the antidote."

Dean knelt on the bokor's chest, pinning him in place as he jabbed the muzzle of the gun in Ti-Jean's cheek. "No, he'll have it now – or your loa will check out long before his."

Ti-Jean grunted as Dean's weight pressed down on him, but his expression didn't change. "You heard Kalfou. Without his prize, my life is forfeit. If it must be, at least I have the satisfaction of taking you insects with me."

Dean was shaking with fear and anger. _Your next mistake will be fatal_. That was last thing Kalfou had said. If Ti-Jean didn't deliver Sam's soul, he was dead, no matter what Dean did to him. He was never going to give up the antidote.

He glanced over at his unmoving brother. Sam's eyes were open and unseeing, his mouth lax. Dean let out a primal yell which echoed over the bayou water, cutting through the screams and shouts of the bokor's panicked followers and the occasional gunshot. When he looked down, he saw Ti-Jean smiling, a cruel chuckle rumbling in his throat as his gloved hand snaked toward the pot of neurotoxin.

Dean snapped. He tossed aside the gun and grabbed the bokor's hand as it closed around the container of poison. They struggled for control; Ti-Jean had size on his side, but Dean had experience and fury. He was the better fighter and this man, this bokor, had just killed his brother.

Ti-Jean's eyes widened and his smile faded as he recognized the strength of his opponent. He slammed his free fist into Dean's ribs but with a bullet in that shoulder, there was little force to the blow. Dean shifted his weight, one knee staying on the bokor's chest, the other pressing down on Ti-Jean's injured arm, pinning it to the ground. With one hand wrapped around Ti-Jean's gloved hand, forcing the pot of poison towards the bokor's face, he used his free hand to pull open the bokor's mouth before dumping in the entire contents of the jar. A vicious uppercut slammed shut the bokor's jaw and forced him to swallow.

Dean scrambled backwards in case the bokor tried to spit any of the poison at him but convulsions were already racking Ti-Jean's body, milky white bubbles dribbling from his lips. Then he stilled, dark eyes frozen open.

Dean riffled through Ti-Jean's pockets for the antidote, but there was nothing. He pushed himself to his feet and lurched over to the big altar, scanning the bottles, jars and pots that covered the surface, looking for anything that resembled the jar that held the poison – but all the ornate jars were decorated with the same filigree silver. Who was he kidding? He had no clue what the fuck he was looking for. He was much more likely to really kill Sam giving him the wrong thing than save his life finding the right thing by chance.

He stumbled back to Sam's side. "OK, Sammy. I know you're still in there. You just hang tough, keep hold of that kite string on your soul and we'll get the two of you back together in no time. You got my word on that. We're gonna do this."

Dean had only one option. He'd carry Sam out of here, grab one of the cars from up by the cabin – the gun would help with that even if the current mass panic didn't – and get Sam to the nearest hospital and hope to hell they could figure out an antidote.

He reached for DaCoste's gun and jammed it into the waistband of his pants before grabbing Sam's arm and hauling him up to a sitting position. The next part was the toughest; getting Sam over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. But he did it, ignoring his battered back's loud protests over Sam's considerable weight. With one last glance down at the unmoving bokor, he staggered toward the doorway.

There was time to save Sam. There were stories of men and women given the poison and buried because their families really believed they were dead. They were brought back to life, so he could bring Sam back, too. No way was that son of bitch bokor taking his brother from him. Fury was again ripping through Dean and he hesitated briefly in the entrance to the peristyle, staring down at a ceremonial candle still flickering in a glass holder. His expression darkened and he kicked it over, then moved as quickly as his burden allowed down the steps. The candle tipped forward in its holder, sliding into the veve. The pool of wax around the wick extinguished the flame – but not before it ignited the gunpowder within the ceremonial artwork. There was a small explosion followed by a series of larger bangs, followed by a massive blast as the entire peristyle blew.

The concussive force knocked Dean to the ground and Sam from his hold, dazing the elder Winchester and sending his brother rolling across the ground. Ears ringing, Dean shakily pushed himself to his knees and crawled to Sam's side, giving only a quick glance to the fireball that the old shack had become.

"Dean?"

The voice was muffled, sounding like it was coming from the inside of tin can. Dean instinctively grabbed the gun from his waistband and pointed it toward the voice. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw who it belonged to. "Jack?"

When the hell had he gotten here? "How-"

"We're a little late to the party. Took us a while to figure out where it was." Jack lowered his rifle, as he glanced over at the burning building. "Although it looks to me, mon ami, like you've got a handle on things." He turned back, admiration quickly turning to worry when he realized the younger Winchester still wasn't moving. "Sam? Is he-"

"It's poison… the zombie neurotoxin." Dean shook his head, still unable to clear the ringing in his ears. "Ti-Jean started the zombie ceremony before I could stop him. We gotta get Sam help, get him to a hospital. He-"

Jack silenced him with a squeeze of the shoulder, then turned and delivered a piercing whistle that even cut through the fog in Dean's head. "Pierre – get the box. Toute de suite!"

For the first time, Dean realized Jack was not alone. Three men stood behind him, each holding a rifle as they stood guard around the brothers. As the middle of the three took off at a run, Dean also saw there were bodies on the ground – DaCoste's armed men. Apparently, Jack and his men were behind some of those gunshots Dean vaguely recalled cutting through the screams of the crowd.

Pierre returned quickly with a shoebox-sized wooden crate and handed it to Jack. The hunter flipped it open, glancing over at Dean as he riffled through the contents. "White powder, black feather… on the soles of the feet?"

Dean nodded.

"Thank the gods that son of bitch is a creature of habit." Jack pulled a small glass vial from the box, rolled it briefly between his palms, then peeled open the packaging on a syringe. He pulled the cap off with his teeth and filled the syringe with the clear contents of the vial. Quickly knocking out the air bubbles, he then stabbed the needle into Sam's heart and depressed the plunger.

Dean held his breath. For a terrifying moment, nothing happened. Then Sam's body convulsed, the arching of his chest accompanied by a loud inhale, loud enough even for Dean's impaired hearing.

Not trusting his ears, Dean pressed his hand to Sam's chest. The welcome thump of heartbeat met his palm, along with the rise and fall of lungs again pumping air. He smiled, and as his gaze shifted to Sam's face, familiar hazel eyes were staring back at him. His brother's confusion was obvious but he was breathing and awake.

Dean patted Sam's chest. "Hey… how you doin' in there?"

Sam frowned, as if he didn't understand the question.

Dean turned worriedly to Jack, but the hunter just shook his head.

"His eggs are gonna be a little scrambled for a while, but he'll be OK – as long as we get him outta here before that mob up there regroups." Jack gestured with his head toward his friends. "You want us to carry him or are you up to it?"

"I got him." Dean shot him a look that brooked no argument, his expression softening as he turned back to his brother. "Come on, Sammy, we're going home."

With Jack's help, he got Sam to his feet. His brother still seemed completely out of it but as Dean wrapped an arm around his back, pulled Sam's arm across his shoulders and nudged him forward, Sam obediently put one foot in front of the other. As Dean turned toward the path away from the river, Jack placed a hand against his chest to stop him.

"No, not that way. Our ride's over here." Jack started walking toward the old dock and as they got closer, Dean saw that an old skiff, a wide shallow draft boat perfect for the bayou waters, was tied up to it. An outboard motor was attached to the back but long oars also lay on the bottom of the boat.

Dean nodded as he watched one of Jack's men jump easily into the boat and hold it steady against the dock so the rest could climb aboard. "The oars – that's why nobody heard you coming."

Jack was now in the boat and reaching up to take Sam from Dean. "These ceremonies, they're usually kinda noisy. The drums… the singing…. The little chug-chug of that motor ain't much of a problem." He grinned. "But the oars are good for bashing gators when they get too close." The boat rocked precariously as Sam unsteadily stepped off the dock and more or less fell into the skiff. Jack caught him and had him settled against the side of the boat by the time Dean climbed in.

Pierre, the hunter who'd retrieved Jack's Voodoo _first aid_ box, settled on the seat in front of the outboard and gave the cord a quick tug. The engine roared to life and the one hunter still on the dock untied the mooring rope and neatly jumped aboard.

They were already turning away from the dock and heading down river as Jack reached under a seat and handed Dean a blanket. Dean took it and wrapped it around Sam. Out on the water, the temperature was much cooler than on land and Dean's bare skin was quickly pebbling in the chill. Jack passed him a second blanket but Dean just dropped it in his lap as he settled into the boat beside Sam. "How'd you'd know? Where we were, to bring the antidote…."

Jack smiled. "I've been doing this a long time, mon ami. It ain't the first time I've had to undo some of Ti-Jean's hocus-pocus." He glanced back toward the bokor's compound, the glow from the burning peristyle still visible above the trees. "When we found my truck at the motel but no sign of you two, we knew something was up - and it wasn't good. Sam gave us the location of that truck stop, so we knew the ceremony was going down somewhere fairly close to it, but it was still a lot of real estate to cover. But then I remembered Parise's daddy talking about a camp his family had up here, how he loved to go fishing for crawfish with his granddaddy. Bill inherited the camp, I knew that much. So, I did some digging and sure enough, he passed it on to his daughter in his will. A little after-hours poking around in county records and we found out where it was.

"As for this…." He tapped the wooden crate with the toe of his boot. "It goes everywhere with me when Voodoo's on the menu. Pierre over there calls it my fix-it box. It's got a little bit of everything, just in case – kinda like the trunk of that Chevy you like to drive around in."

"Damn, Jack, we owe you…." Dean glanced at Sam, still huddled in the blanket at his side. The wind as they moved along the water at a good clip was whipping Sam's hair across his face but also seemed to be blowing away the confusion. His color was better, his eyes more focused. "Big time."

"You owe me nothing, son. If positions were reversed, you'd haul my sorry ass out of the line of fire." Jack nodded back toward the camp. "Besides, I think it'll be a while before Ti-Jean recovers from the mess you made tonight. That's done me, and everyone who's ever had to deal with him, a huge favor."

Dean snorted. "That bastard's not recovering from anything." He shrugged at Jack's look of surprise. "He was kinda inside the peristyle when it blew up – after I stuffed him full of the same poison he gave Sam."

Jack's surprise gave way to a deep chuckle. "Then, son, once we get you two checked out, the drinks are most definitely on me. We've been trying to remove that blight on our community for years." He glanced back toward the camp. "What about Parise?"

Dean just shook his head, choosing not to share the details of her grisly death. "Ti-Jean was behind her father's death… wanted Bill out of the way so he had a clear shot at her mom. For magic, for sex, to use Parise's psychic abilities… I dunno. But somehow Parise found out, and has been cooking up payback for a while. She knew… that she wouldn't make it through tonight." He shrugged. "Seemed at peace with it because she knew Ti-Jean wouldn't walk away, either."

Jack stared out across the water. "I reached out to her mama a few times after Bill died, tried to pull her out of Ti-Jean's web, but she'd have none of it. Part of me thinks Parise tried, too, with no more luck. After Marie died, I guess she decided to fight fire with fire."

"Guess so." Dean shivered, stubbornness finally caving to need, and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, pulling it tight around him as he stared out across the water, at the long reeds that lined the banks and at the bright green algae that was pushed aside as the skiff moved through it.

He shook his head as he studied the boat. "You know, Jack, I'm grateful for the ride – believe me – but if you were gonna come by boat, you could've picked something with a bit more style. This thing? It's kinda like the boat world's answer to a minivan."

Jack snorted. "Beck moi tchew."

Dean smiled. "We've already been over this. Me biting your ass – it ain't happening." He kicked the side of the boat. "It just would've been cool if you'd ridden to the rescue in something like… you know, one of those airboats. The ones they used on Gentle Ben, the show Sammy watched when he was a kid. I always wanted to ride in one of those things."

"I never watched Gentle Ben."

Dean's head snapped to his left. Sam's frown now had nothing to do with confusion; it was directed right at his brother. Dean grinned. "Look who's back. And sure you did – every day after school."

Sam cleared his throat, glancing around as if getting his bearings. "Dude, that was you. Where are we?"

"On our way home. And Gentle Ben - definitely you. A kid and his pet bear? Way too sappy for me. The only thing cool about that show was that airboat the ranger got to ride home in every night."

Sam's frown deepened into a scowl. "You seem to know an awful lot about a show you never watched?"

Jack laughed heartily. "He's got you there, Dean." He nodded at Sam. "And it is damn good to hear you two bickering like brothers should."

Sam offered a confused smile. "Jack. Good to see. I'm pretty sure I owe you one helluva thank you – only right now, I'm not sure for what."

Jack smiled. "You've got your brother to thank for dragging your ass out of the fire – literally. I'm just the cab ride home."

Dean snorted. "More cavalry than cab."

Jack waved a hand, dismissing the compliment.

Sam turned to Dean, shaking his head. "Dude, I've got Swiss Cheese for brains right now. I remember Erzulie possessing you-"

"Wait…" Jack raised an eyebrow at Dean. "You were possessed – by the love goddess herself?"

Dean glowered at Jack. "So he says. Personally, I don't remember a damn thing."

Sam bit back a smile. "She liked you… thought you were beautiful. How's it feel to have a girl inside you?"

Dean gave Sam the middle finger. "Besides, she only stayed for a few minutes – too much testosterone, I guess. Meg was inside you for a whole week. What does that say, huh?"

"Man, our lives are screwed." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Seriously, dude, last thing I remember is you getting thrown across the room when she left. After that… nada. Blank slate, 'til… Gentle Ben. What the hell happened?"

Dean rolled his eyes at Jack. "He falls asleep when we watch movies, too. Always misses the ending, then wakes up all, 'What happened? That didn't make sense….'"

"Oh, bite me." Sam elbowed Dean through the blanket.

Dean grinned. He had no clue what crap the world was gonna throw at them when they got off this boat, what the next day, the next week or the next month held in store for them, although re-locking their tattoos would be high on the agenda. But for right now, after all the shit they'd been through at the hands of Ti-Jean and Parise and all the crackpots in their entourage, they were OK. Beat to hell, sure, but all parts – and souls – intact.

Dean shifted to face Sam, freeing an arm to pull the blanket more snugly around his brother. "OK, Sammy, here's what you missed. Get comfy – this may take a while."

**Finis**

**A/N**: _And there you have it – another adventure completed. _

_As promised, here's the prompt from JaniceC678 that set this fic in motion: "A couple of my online friends and I have this awesome, albeit somewhat vague, idea (In fact, at a con last year, I won a 45-second "pitch the movie" contest…) involving a job in New Orleans that ends up leading to an encounter with a voodoo cult. Beautiful voodoo priestess, of course. Maybe they want Sam because they can sense he's special. Maybe he'd make a good sacrifice. Maybe it's just part of the hunt. Dean falls under spell of said voodoo priestess. Maybe turns on Sam at some point, but of course overcomes it and saves him. Maybe a giant snake and bonfires in the bayou, maybe the guys shirtless and just wearing those loose fitting white pants..." So, yes, we have Janice and her pals to thank for the mental images of shirtless Sam and Dean in white pants! *g*_

_Thanks so much for reading and (hopefully) enjoying. Now all is said and done, I'd love to hear from you, so please drop me a line. Until next time, cheers!_


End file.
